#i love that the story respects her enough to understand her and scrutinize her when appropriate

[justablanketreally]

i’m not a big fan of a rickconvenient mort (i think it’s theme is muddled and confused) but morty’s breakdown/rant to beth about how he feels his presence is met with only tolerance or even contempt by everyone in the house is so impactful. beth did make a turnaround after the s3 finale. she stared prioritizing morty’s comfort, safety, and happiness in regards to his adventures with rick. she’s grown and changed and developed and that’s really clear throughout season 4 and beyond. but the damage was already done and morty is easily swept away by someone who gave him more than a modicum of positive attention, more than he ever received at home. and all beth can do is catch him when he inevitably falls, finally giving him that safety net that he didn’t have for so long. even if i don’t think the writers knew exactly what they wanted to do or were actually implying with planetina, i do love that it was placed on beth to confront her actions as arguably the most powerful person in the house. she didn’t do enough before, but she knows that and is trying now.

[cinebration]

Prophetic Fucking Visions (Alfie Solomons x Reader) [One-shot]

Prompt: “Am I not good enough?” / “I’m not good enough.”

For @writeroutoftime​! I had so much fun writing this! I was nervous, because I love Alfie so much and felt I couldn’t write him, but here we are. I hope you like it!

Warnings: blood and guts, seagull death

Gif Source: cillianmurphyss

You first met Alfie on the shore, though you were in the sand and he was above you on the bluff. A gunshot exploded above your head.

Curses spewed out of you as you ducked, your heart pounding in your chest. A seagull went down in a puff of feathers, blood splattering onto your hair.

You swore loudly.

Alfie’s grizzled face peered over the bluff, eyes squinting down at you. “Fuck me, that’s a woman.”

Shading your eyes against the sun, you glared up at him. “What gave it away?”

“Not your fuckin’ sailor’s mouth,” he boomed at you.

If only I had a sailor’s fist, I’d knock you down, you thought.

“Sorry, love, didn’t mean for all that shit on ya. Come on up and get yourself cleaned up.”

You hesitated. You didn’t know him, and he still had the pistol in his hand. “I’ll manage,” you called up.

“Fuck me, you want me to throw down a rag instead?”

It was better than walking back into town with seagull oozing down your face. “If you please.”

“Awright,” Alfie croaked, disappearing.

After five minutes of waiting, the sun starting to beat down on you, you decided the rag wasn’t worth waiting for. You resumed your walk across the beach.

“Woman!”

You stopped in your tracks and turned toward the voice. Alfie lumbered across the sand toward you, a small towel clutched in one broad hand. You stared at him. The man seemed to be a bear, shoulders slightly hunched as he made his way to you.

The horrid scar on the left side of his face and the milky blue eye drew your attention last. The other eye searched your face as he at last stopped before you and extended the cloth.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, taking it from him and roughing it over your hair.

“Not seen you around these parts, Sailor Mouth.”

You arched your eyebrows. “Sailor Mouth?”

“Got nothin’ else to call you ’til you give me your name.”

“And what would I call you?”

“The Wandering Jew.”

Your eyebrows arched higher, but you kept quiet. Raking the towel over your hair and ears one last time, you asked, “Did I get it all?”

Lips pressing together, he surveyed your head. Taking the towel from your hand, he swiped it along your forehead and then down the back of your neck, wiping away the last of the gunk. He grunted his approval.

“Thank you,” you repeated.

“For getting seagull guts all over you? That’s bad luck, that is.”

A rueful chuckle slipped past your lips. “Call me Bad Luck Sailor Mouth.”

Alfie’s good eye glimmered.

~~

“I do the odd thing here and there. Nothing too respectable,” you said with a laugh.

Alfie walked alongside you on the beach. You had chanced upon him a week after the seagull incident. He had struck up a friendly, albeit strange conversation with you before you had been forced to return back to town.

This was the fourth such meeting. It seemed he had been waiting for you this time. You only walked the beach once a week, not always on the same day, so he must have waited each day to see if you’d walk by.

“I used to make bread,” he said. “It isn’t too respectable neither.”

“Well, I’m sure real bakers would abhor liquid bread.”

He looked at you sharply.

“Your reputation precedes you,” you informed him. “It seems you’re a god down in Camden Town.”

He grunted. “I was resurrected.”

“And I was swallowed into the whale’s belly.”

He laughed. “That where you got your sailor’s mouth, is it?”

“More like my bad luck.”

He looked at you with that unblinking stare of his. It disconcerted you less and less the more you saw it. He seemed to be fixing it on you more frequently, though you couldn’t understand why. You felt scrutinized, a not altogether unpleasant feeling from him.

“You eat?” he asked.

“What, whales? That’s not how I got out of that mess.”

His eyes gleamed wickedly in the setting sun. “Dinner.”

“Sure, if you have whale to spare.”

“No whale, I fuckin’ hate fish.”

“I suppose that’s alright. It’d just taste like bad luck.”

Alfie lumbered off in the direction of his home. You managed to keep pace with him, his stride long but unhurried. A light breeze blew off the sea, tickling your cheeks with sea spray even at a distance. Ominous clouds gathered on the horizon, the distant breakers foaming white as the wind whipped them into a frenzy.

Alfie refused to let you help in the kitchen. You followed him into it anyway, watched him work. He had put a chicken in his oven earlier. You gathered he had hoped to have you over for dinner—had probably prepared a special meal every day until you arrived.

“On occasion,” he informed you, “I did make real bread.” He set a basket full of it before you.

You plucked off a small roll and began to eat it as you waited for him to finish roasting some vegetables. “A chicken, huh?”

“The seagull I shot didn’t keep. It was a stringy bastard.”

You laughed, the sound filling the space over the sizzle of the stove.

You enjoyed every bite of dinner. Alfie watched you with interest as you ate your fill.

“What’s a woman like you doin’ here in Margate? Why aren’t you in London or someplace?”

“Too big and noisy.” You shrugged. “Nobody gets seagull in my hair or shoots at boats for fun. I guess they only do that to people.”

“Ah, well, I’ve done that. Shot people.”

You lifted your head to see him staring at you. “For business or…?”

He leaned back in his chair, appraising you. “A bit of both.”

You nodded and resumed eating. Your inquiries about him after your first meeting had told you that much about him.

Dessert was succulent fruit. Alfie had fallen into silence, not quite brooding but definitely pensive. He directed you into the living room, the open balcony doors overlooking the ocean. The storm approached, a mild rain beginning to fall.

It reminded you of the rainy days of your childhood. Your mother would stoke the hearth fire and spin yarns to while away the hours.

The weather and Alfie’s unusually subdued demeanor pulled you down into a somber mood.

“My mother told me a story once,” you murmured, “one I’ve never forgotten. It goes like this. A young man meets a beautiful woman—the woman of his dreams, he thinks—who always treats him well but never responds to his advances. He watches her from afar, watching as other men try to woo her. She treats them coldly. He thinks to himself, ‘She must love me. She treats me better than them.’ But try as he might, with flowers and sweets and pretty words, he can’t get her to acknowledge her feelings.

“So one day, he asks, desperate, ‘Am I not good enough?’ And she says, ‘I’m not good enough. I’d make a poor wife. I’ll never be the woman in your dreams.’ He protests, but she tells him, ‘I have a temper, and I speak my mind. I wake ill-humored and have days where it feels like the whole sky is gray and nothing can lift it. My smile is fake, and I hate this place.’

“He realizes with a broken heart that she is not the woman he believed her to be, and he leaves her.”

Silence descended on you both.

“I hate that story,” you hissed quietly. “It doesn’t tell you that he drinks too much and stays out late, that he would make an equally poor husband. He isn’t the man of her dreams either. Neither is enough alone, but together, they can be.”

Alfie shifted in his seat. The creak of his chair drew your attention. A deep furrow scored his brow. “Dreams, yeah?” The tension in his voice sent a shiver through you.

“Yeah,” you echoed.

“I’ve been having these dreams lately, see. They’ve got this woman in it, yeah, but I can’t see her face. She could be anyone. In these dreams, she asks me a question, right? And I know in that moment she will be my death.” He looked at you, unblinking. “You’ve got a question for me, yeah?”

You met his gaze. It was the question you hadn’t asked when he had introduced himself. “What did you do to condemn yourself to be the wandering Jew?”

He stilled. The waves crashed on the shore beyond the window, seagulls shrieking overhead.

“Yeah.” His voice rumbled in his chest. “That’s it.”

“Any woman could’ve asked that.”

“They would’ve asked, ‘Why do you call yourself that? What’s it mean?’ But you know what it means, so you asked the right question.”

“How will I be your death, then?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Thunder pealed, shaking the windows.

“Should I leave?”

“Did I say that? I came to Margate to fucking die, yeah? I’d rather someone love me to death than this fucking cancer.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’m not the woman of your dreams.”

“You’re right,” he growled. “I don’t have dreams. I have prophetic fucking visions. So are ya gonna fuckin’ kiss me or wot, Sailor Mouth?”

“You bet your fucking ass I am.”

[queenofspades6]

More than Partners -The Mandalorian x reader

Kiss me

Chapter 14 of More than Partners

Summary: You finally see the Mandalorian’s face.

Warnings: Spoilers from Episode 15 season 2. Lot of fluffffffffff.

AN: Hellooo guyyyys! Another chapter is out! It waaaas soooo cool to write it! I really hope you’ll like it! Next chapter will be smut btw!! And just a little teaser: smut in Boba Fett’s ship. Be prepared. Don’t forget to like, reblog and comment! Thanks to all of you who do you are the best!!

A NEW CHAPTER IS OUT EVERY MONDAY

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<-Chapter 13 - Chapter 15->

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“Mayfeld.”The Mandalorian declared taking a few steps towards the man.

“Hey Mando! Long time. I see you brought Y/N with you. You are as beautiful as the first time I met you, sweetheart.”

Mando blocked Mayfeld’s view, so he couldn’t see you anymore, and he began to talk about why they needed him.

You didn’t really like Mayfeld, but deep down, you knew he wasn’t a bad guy.

“We need coordinates for Moff Gideon’s cruiser.”Mando announced nonchalantly.

“Moff Gideon? Yeah forget it. Just take le back to the scarpyard. I’m not doin’ that.”

“They have the kid.”You exclaimed, clenching your fists tightly in anger.

“The little green guy?”Mayfeld replied, eyebrows raised in wonder.

You nodded.

“So…I help you guys get him back, you guys let me go?”

You giggled, and Cara told him that wasn’t how it worked.

“Well, then what’s in it for me? Can I have a night with the Jedi?”

Cara glared at him threateningly.

“Can I have at least an afternoon with her?”

“No.”Mando said in a lower but frightening tone.

“You are not funny. Maybe a kiss then? Just a kiss from her and I’ll do whatever you want.”Mayfeld gestured to you sitting next to the Mandalorian.

“I said no, she is not for sale.”The bounty hunter almost shouted raising his tone, and already planning to kill the ex-imperial.

“Calm down, Mandalorian.”Fennec interrupted.”He is not gonna lay a finger on her, and if he does, she’ll slice him and you’ll burn his corpse.”

“Nice. I love it.”Mayfeld joked, trying to hide his fear away.

“That’s not fu-“The Mandalorian tried to pronounce but you stopped him with a soft hand on his thigh.

“All right, but here’s the thing. I can’t get those coordinates unless I have access to an internal Imperial terminal. I believe there’s one on Morak.”

Hearing this name made you stare at Mando who was looking at you in return.

“Morak? There’s nothing on Morak.”Mando raised the tone again, but with a caress of yours on his thigh, he began to relax and soothen.

“It’s a secret Imperial mining hub, okay? If you can get me in there, I can get you the coordinates.”

The bounty hunter stared at you, waiting for you answer, you acquiesced, and he commanded Boba Fett to punch in the right coordinates.

“I am not gonna need long inside, so once I get the coordinates, you guys gotta get me the hell out of here.”Mayfled affirmed.

“You get to the roof. I’ll drop in and pull you out.”

“All right. Mayfeld and I will swap out for the drivers in the tunnel.”Cara said looking at the group confidently.

“As much as I’d like to take a road trip with Rebel-dropper here, that’s not gonna work because these Remnant bases are set up and run by ex-ISB. If you get scanned and your genetic signature shows up on any New Republic register, you’re gonna be detected and it’s guns out.”

“Fennec will go.”Mando suggested, scratching his fingers in worry.

The more time we were wasted, the less chances the Child had to remain alive.

“No, I’m wanted by the ISP. I’ll trip the alarm too.”

“Fett?”

“They might recognize my face.”

“so it’s me goin’ there alone. Great!”Mayfeld joked, trying to hide how scared he was.

“I’ll go.”

Mayfeld tried to object but it was to no use.

“I am coming with you. But I won’t be showing my face.”The Mandalorian declared.

“I am going too then.”You shouted loud enough so everyone can hear.

“No, it’s too dangerous.”Mando murmured to you.

“And you are a Jedi, they might know you. We can’t take any risk.”

“They don’t know who I am. They never saw me, and everything on me in this damn universe has been destroyed, so instead of wasted time here, we’re going right now.”

The Mandalorian approached you, took you by the shoulders and tried to take some distance with the group.

“You can’t go, Y/N. It’s dangerous, and if they understand you are a Jedi, you’ll be killed straight away. I won’t take the risk.”He whispered, still holding you by the shoulders.

“Wherever I go, you go, right? Then wherever you go, I go too. Period.”

He sighed and loosened his hold on your arms in a defeated way.

“Great.”Mayfeld exclaimed with an ironical tone.” The more, the merrier, right?”

The Mandalorian was unrecognizable with his new armor on.

Mayfeld began to laugh, and made fun of him, and you kicked him in the crotch.

“Ah! You have a rough one, Mando!”

Mando sighed.

“You look cute, Mando.”You murmured.”Want to take a drink with me after?”

You heard me laugh a bit under his armor, and you smiled, hoping he would relax.

Mando talked with Cara a bit and gave her his armor.

You were sitting next to Mando in that weird thing which was supposed to help you get the coordinates of Moff Gideon. The Mandalorian seemed anxious, and you intertwined your fingers with his and squeezed to reassure him.

“Hey, how’s it feel? I mean c’man, you still get to wear a helmet, right.”Mayfeld tried to annoy Mando.

“Shut up, Mayfeld.”You replied, feeling anger rushing through your body, and your fist ready to punch the man.

“I don’t know how your people do with this thing.”

“Mayfeld, stop talking or I’ll kill you with my bare hands right now.”

“So rough. I like it. You won’t kill me, princess, you need me.”

You clenched your teeth and took a deep breath.

“All right. I am taking this thing off.”The ex-Imperial said, removing his helmet.”Feels better when it’s off.”

“Shut up.”

“Princess, stop flirting with me.”

Your conversation was disturbed by someone talking, and the Mandalorian commanded Mayfeld to keep drivind steady.

“Yeah. Empire. New Republic, it’s all the same for those people. Invaders on their land is all we are.”The ex-Imperial exclaimed, his voice getting on your nerves.

He talked again and again, trying to attract Mando’s attention desperately. You tried to clear your mind, watching the locals and your hand still in Mando’s. These people were looking at you with scorn, and it saddened you. You were an intruder on their land, taking advantage of their resources only for your benefit. How could they love you?

“Control, this is Juggernaut Three.”Someone said over the comms.”We’re coming up on some route interference. Control. Control! We need a new…”

A huge explosion mushroomed some meters away from your truck. The voice told you to maintain the speed and remain cautious, while you heard another explosion.

“This is bad.”You shouted, and at the same moment, you saw aliens trying to jump on your vehicle.

“What was that?”

“Pirates. Keep driving. I’ll take care of it.”The Mandalorian declared, sure of himself.

“Mando, be careful, please.”

He squeezed your hand and nodded, opening the window of the Juggernaut and then climbing on the roof.

“How sweet you two are.”Mayfeld joked.”Quite the impossible love story.”

“I said shut up, Mayfeld!”

You heard screaming, and Mando asked Mayfeld to go faster.

“Be careful with the rhydonium.”You screamed to the Ex-Imperial.

“Going faster is a bad idea!”

“Mando, is everything okay?”You shouted, trying to look up on the window.

“He is a big guy, he can take care of himself, you know?”Mayfeld stated, an annoying smile on his face.

“Shut up.”

“TIE fighters!”You proclaimed.”For once, I am glad to see them.”

The juggernaut crossed the bridge, and the Mandalorian came back sitting next you, safe.

Stormtroopers were saluting you in respect as the vehicle passed. Mayfeld returned the salute, and you pushed Mando a bit in order for him to push the ex-Imperial too.

A crowd was slowly forming around the juggernaut while you, Mando and Mayfeld descended from the vehicle.

“It’s probably in the officer’s mess.”The ex-Imperial murmured, saluting the crowd.

Just at the entrance of the officer’s room, you could perceive officers dining peacefully.

“There it is.”

“Good luck.”The Mandalorian declared, watching you carefully not to lose you with all those stormtroopers.

You and Mando watched Mayfeld come back and murmured that he couldn’t do it because of his ex-officer.

“Give me the data stick.”The bounty commanded.

“It’s not gonna work. In order to access the network, the terminal has to scan your face.”

“Give it to me.”He repeated louder this time.

You watched the Mandalorian glancing at the officers’room, saluting one officer and then heading towards the terminal. And then, when you didn’t expect the most, the man you loved removed his helmet, only to show his brown and soft hair and his pale skin. You gasped.

You and Mayfeld caught the officer advanced towards the Mandalorian, and pulling you with him, the ex-Imperial went to Mando’s rescue.

“This is my Commander, officer, TK-593, sir. I am Imperial Combat Assault Transport Lieutenant TK-111, and this is Commander TK-666 with me. I am afraid you’ll have to speak up to him a little bit since his vessel lost pressure in Taanab.”Mayfeld told his ex-officer with an impressing confidence and gesturing to the Mandalorian.

The officer eyebrowed Mando and then you.

“You.”He pointed his finger at your face.”Remove your helmet.”

“Yes, sir.”You replied, removing your helmet obediently.

To say the officer was shocked to see you was an understatement. He glared at you, and stared at your feet, your stomach, and then your face, scrutinizing every bit of you.

“What’s your name, Officer?”The man shouted to Mando.

Din looked at Mayfeld and then he crossed your gaze. Finally, you could see his features. His brown eyes were in yours, and you never wanted him to have a helmet again. Seeing him for the first time in a so uncommon place was disturbing, but at the same time pleasing. Of course, you were sad that he had to break his Creed, but deep down, you were glad to see his face. Now, you could place a face to your love.

“We just call him, Brown Eyes. Isn’t that right, Officer? Let’s go fill out those TPS reports, so we can go recharge the power colis.”

You began to walk towards the exit, but it was too good to be true.

“You are not dismissed.”Valin Hess exclaimed.

You stopped in your tracks, grazed Din’s hand and turned back to the Officer.

“You the tank troopers that delivered the shipment of rhydonium?”

“Yes, sir.”You all replied at the same time.

Valin Hess stared at Din, scanning him cautiously. You held his hand and squeezed it in reassurance.

“Well, you three managed to be the only transport today to deliver their shipment. Come with me.”

The Officer patted Mando and Mayfeld’s shoulders, and let his hand wandered along your waist.

“Let’s get a drink, Brown Eyes.”

You sat beside the Mandalorian, his thigh against yours.

Mayfeld and Valin began to talk, and you felt tension rose across the room. In a rapid motion, the ex-Imperial shot Valin Hess impulsively with his blaster.

“Shit!”You shouted, drawing out your gun and shooting a stormtrooper.

The Mandalorian followed you and shot two Imperial Officers.

Mayfeld gave the helmet back to Mando.

“You did what you had to.”The ex-Imperial stated.”I never saw your face.”

You watched Din hesitating with the helmet. Without thinking, you grabbed his face, caressed his cheek, and then kissed his lips tenderly. You put your hand on his hair while the other was stroking his cheek.

When you pulled away, breathless, the Mandalorian intertwined his lips with yours again, his hands fondling your hips softly.

“I don’t want to interrupt you, lovebirds, but now we need to run.”

Pulling away, you tried to catch your breath while Din put his helmet back on, holding your hand firmly.

You wanted to think about Din’s face and how soft his lips felt on yours and how brown his hair was, but it wasn’t the time. Stormtroopers were coming your way, and you needed to make it alive.

While walking close to a window, you shot many stormtroopers. Mando helped you climb the window as shoretroopers were trying to kill both of you.

The Mandalorian let you climb the ladder first after Mayfeld, fearing you would fall.

Climbing on the roof, you discovered Boba Fett’s ship coming your way.

The Mandalorian jumped first, and then Mayfeld.

“Come on, Y/N. Jump!”Mando screamed at you, ready to catch you.

You jumped and fell on the Mandalorian’s arms.

“Thank you for helping.”Mando declared to Mayfeld, grateful.

“Huh, good luck gettin’ your kid back. And take care of this one.”Mayfeld said gesturing to you.”She is a tough one, but a princess at the heart.

You smiled and snuggled against the Mandalorian’s armor, and for the first time you didn’t care about people watching you together.

“Take me back.”Mayfeld declared and Cara let him go.

You had seen the Mandalorian without his helmet. Now, you knew what he looked like. You had kissed him, and without his helmet, and he had kissed you back. You were everything to each other. Wherever you went, he went. If he fell, you fell. The only thing missing was the Child. No matter what, you would take him back. And you would be a family again.

A clan of three.

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⬇️Chapter 15⬇️

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[lexosaurus]

Pink Astronaut

This is my secret santa gift for Anectoplasm on discord! Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy!

Characters: Danny/Paulina Genre: Fluff Word Count: 4549 Summary: To Paulina's dismay, she and Danny Fenton must work together on their English final project.

Read on [ao3] [ffn]

---

It was Lancer’s fault, really. 

He assigned the class a partner-project for their final presentation, but being the annoying teacher he was, he had decided it was imperative that the students  were assigned to pairs of his choosing. Aka, no working with friends.

Paulina tried her best. Truly, she did. She batted her eyelashes and put on her most polite tone when she said, “Pretty please with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top, can I work with Star instead of Loser Fenton?” 

But, to her utter dismay, Mr. Lancer was a brick wall. No amount of wit nor charm could change his rubric, and so Paulina relented in a very much not dramatic final sigh as she resigned herself to be Danny Fenton’s English partner for the coming weeks.

Fenton was...well, he was weird. His parents hunted ghosts, he always slept through class, he was clumsy, and Paulina knew that in middle school Fenton was just like all the other boys who saw her as nothing more than a pretty face.

And that annoyed her to her core. She was a human, damn it! She had her own wishes and dreams and goals in life. Although she wasn’t vocal about it, she wanted to be a journalist when she was older. The kind that made it to shows like 60 Minutes, reporting on amazing stories from all around the world. She wanted to travel, she wanted to meet people, and she wanted to be the best at it. 

She was still a long way off from that now though. First, she needed to survive through this stupid English project with that weird nerd who had gone through a not-so-secret crush on her before.

Though, when she looked his way now, Fenton didn’t look all too thrilled to be partnered with her either.

She would have called it odd, but that had been their dynamic for a little over a year now. She guessed that Fenton finally got the hint and dropped his love struck puppy act. Maybe he and Sam had finally confessed their undying love to each other. 

It was probably for the best.

Fenton made no move towards her, instead choosing to stare dully into his notebook.

Paulina rolled her eyes and slid from her chair. She strode over to his desk, throwing a hand on her waist and looking down at him with an expression she knew would yield no arguments. “Alright, my house or yours?” 

“Huh?” Fenton said, recognizing a little too late that she was there.

“For the project? The one we were just assigned? Hello, Earth to Commander Fenton! My house or yours today?”

“Today?” Fenton blinked. “You wanna start today?”

Paulina narrowed her eyes. “Why, got something better to do?”

“Well—it’s just—”

“I’ll come over at four. I’ll be at cheer practice till then. If you want anything from Starbucks, just text me before then. I know Manson has my number, you can get it from her.”

She left him sitting dumbly in his chair. No one was getting in the way of her and that A, especially not some nerd who couldn’t even bother to care about school.

But, to Paulina’s surprise, Fenton actually opened the door for her when she showed up to his house that afternoon. Half of her expected him to blow her off, just ghost her and leave her to do all the work. And yet, he brought her into his kitchen, got out his notebook, and got right to work.

It was unnerving to see him so studious. She remembered Fenton as a nerd in middle school, but everyone knew about the absolute nose-dive his grades took once he got to high school. It wasn’t exactly a secret, what with him skipping class every other day.

The duo parted ways with a promise to meet up again over the weekend. Again, to Paulina’s pleasant surprise, he actually texted her to confirm their plans. And when Paulina stepped into the Starbucks that Saturday afternoon, Danny was already sitting at a table waiting for her, his notebook out and the project rubric between his fingers.

This much good luck was sure to run out, but Paulina just hoped that Fenton could last another few weeks before he inevitably dropped the ball.

Except, that never happened. Each time they set up plans to work on their presentation, Fenton would show up, he would focus on the work, and they’d part ways with plans to reconvene later. It was uncanny. It was so unlike everything Paulina had come to know of Fenton through these months.

And Paulina wondered if maybe, just maybe, this was who Fenton really was. 

Under all those disciplinary actions, the dropped beakers, the tardies, the unfinished assignments and failed grades, if this was hidden underneath.

So then that begged the question: why didn’t he show this side of himself more? Why was he failing if he was clearly capable of doing the work?

And so Paulina sat there, just a week before they were set to give their presentation, scrutinizing Fenton’s features as he recited a passage from the book they were analyzing. She noted the bags under his eyes, the bruise on his cheek, the way his face seemed to tighten every time he coughed.

He had arrived a few minutes late that day, and she remembered how he entered the classroom, his gate just a little too stiff to be natural.

Someone had hurt Fenton, Paulina realized. Someone had beat him up.

For reasons she didn’t know, hot anger flashed over her. Someone beat up Danny, a kid who was clumsy and could be a bit slow on the uptake, but someone who Paulina had come to understand was a rather kind and gentle classmate.

Yet someone didn’t care.

So the next day, maybe she stormed up to Dash a little too aggressively to demand, “What the hell did you do to Fenton?”

There was Dash, right on queue with his cocky laugh and a, “That nerd had it coming to him!”

“Are you kidding me?” Paulina yelled. “A week before our English final presentation and you punch Fenton across the face? Are you stupid?”

Dash’s smile dropped instantly, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Paulina, I didn’t—”

“You know how much this class matters to me, Dash! You know I wanna move up to honors next year! I can’t do that if you’re giving my English partner a goddamn concussion while we’re preparing to present!”

“Paulina!” Dash grabbed her arm.

“No!” Paulina ripped her arm away. “Don’t touch me, and don’t fucking sabotage—”

“I didn’t beat Fenton up!” Dash shouted. 

Paulina’s eyes narrowed. 

Dash held his hands up in a surrender. “I swear I didn’t beat him up. Ask Kwan if you don’t believe me. Honestly, I haven’t touched him in months. The—the coach told me that if I did well in school this year, I’d probably get recruited to college. I didn’t want to risk Fenton messing that up. I swear!”

Paulina stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to crack. But Dash’s panicked face held.

“Whatever.” She whipped around. “Tell your stupid friends to keep their hands off my project partner.”

“Consider it done!”

Paulina stormed off, ignoring the wide stares from her peers and the whispers of, “Did she just defend Fenton?”

She tried to block them out. They weren’t important. Her grades were important, her future was important, but those idiots? No, they meant nothing to her.

That afternoon, Danny was early. He was sitting there in the empty classroom when Paulina walked in, his head down to his paper, and didn’t even look up when Paulina gave her cheerful, “Hello!”

Well...that was weird. Sure, a few weeks ago, Danny mostly ignored her cheerful greetings in favor of getting ahead on the project, but Paulina liked to think that a mutual respect, or—god forbid—a friendship had been forming between the duo.

“Oof, cold shoulder? So not your speed, Danny,” Paulina said, plopping down to her seat.

Danny tensed, “I...uh, sorry. I’m tired.”

“Sheesh, alright.” Paulina slid her notebook out. “So we were working on the symbolism slide of the powerpoint, right?”

“Yeah,” Danny passed his notebook over to her. “I started parsing through the book at lunch today and found some good passages. Take a look.”

Paulina went to study the paper, but something else caught her eye.

Something on his arm.

Something that looked like a burn.

“Danny?” Paulina stared wide-eyed at the space of molten skin between his sleeve and hand. “What the hell happened to your arm?”

“Oh, I—” Danny slipped his arm under the desk. “I, uh, sorry. You see—”

“Whoa!” Paulina only caught a glance of his face before he ducked down again, but that split-second was enough. “What the hell? What happened to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Paulina saw red. “Oh, that idiot! I’m gonna kill him!”

Danny looked up, the multicolored patchwork of skin on his face finally fully visible to Paulina. “Kill who?”

“Oh, look at you! That asshole!”

Fenton winced. “Am I...am I missing something here?”

“I’m gonna kill Dash!”

“...Dash?” 

“I told him this morning to keep his hands off you! I made that asshole promise to me, and I told him to pass the message along to his stupid friends too!”

Something in Danny’s expression softened. “You told off Dash?”

“Well of course I did!” Paulina said hotily. “You’re my project partner! What kind of person would I be if I let you get hurt?”

“Oh well…” A smile quirked on Danny’s lips. “Thanks for that, but it wasn’t Dash.”

“Well then who was it? I’ll kill them.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“You’re right, death would be too generous. I’ll just destroy their reputation instead!”

A bemused look overtook Danny’s face. “Yeah, I have no doubt you would.”

“Tell me right now, Fenton. Tell me who did this and I’ll make them pay. You won’t have to worry about them ever again once I’m finished with them.”

“Oh, I…” The smile fell from Danny’s lips. “It wasn’t anyone. I just...fell.”

“You what?” Paulina’s voice rose in disbelief.

“Yeah, you know how clumsy I am.” Danny rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He laughed awkwardly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I just—you know. I was walking in the hall, fell down some stairs, hit the stair rail at the bottom. Just typical weirdo Fenton stuff! Nothing you need to destroy anyone over.”

“Don’t play with me. You didn’t fall.”

“I did fall though! It was...yeah, you know how it is. I was walking and talking at the same time and just slipped and fell! Ah, stupid Fenton, am I right? Just always...falling.”

Paulina’s glare was hollow. “How dumb do you think I am, Danny?”

Danny froze, his rambling stuttering off into a tense silence. “What?”

“I said—” Paulina rose from her chair. “—just how dumb do you think I am?”

“Uh, sorry. I’m sorry. Look, I think we may have gotten on the wrong topic here.”

“No!” Paulina slammed her hand down on Fenton’s notebook. “This little tirade? This sham you’ve been pulling for the past two years? It’s bullshit, Danny, and you know it.”

“I don’t—I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do know! You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Paulina hissed. “We’ve been working together for weeks now, and you think you can just sit here and say you fell? To me?” 

“Well, sue me, Paulina!” Danny snapped. “Why do you even care, anyways? We’re not exactly friends.”

“Because you’re my project partner! Your grade is my grade, idiot!”

“Gee, I’m glad you only care about people when it affects your grade.” Danny shoved his notebook into his bag. “What an amazing quality to have.”

Paulina stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “That’s not true!”

Danny ignored her reaction, instead choosing to angrily zip up his backpack. “In case you haven’t noticed, your boyfriend’s been beating me up since we were five. I’m not sure why you’ve decided to care now, but if you want something to be mad at, maybe try being mad at the years of shit I’ve taken from you and your friends.” 

Paulina stood there seething as Danny pushed past her and stocked off into the hallway, slamming the classroom door shut behind him.

There was the Fenton she’d come to know in high school, this was the Fenton she remembered. The one who avoided questions, who put himself down to avoid suspicion, who left in the middle of class without saying anything, who no one could rely on.

But, perhaps more now than ever, Paulina could see just how much of a sham this whole act was.

Just how much he was using this face to protect himself.

But from what? From who?

Paulina tried not to dwell too much on the bruises, especially since they were gone the next day and didn’t reappear for the rest of the week. Of course, Dash swore up and down that he had nothing to do with Fenton’s appearance, and Paulina believed him. Dash could be a bit bullheaded, but he was still one of her closest friends.

For the remaining week they had to put their presentation together, Danny kept to himself, and so did Paulina. Whatever semblance of a friendship they’d built had disintegrated, and both parties seemed content to let it fall.

It made sense, logically speaking. Paulina was popular, Fenton wasn’t. Paulina was an extrovert, Fenton was an introvert. Paulina thrived in attention, Fenton shied away from it. They were like oil and water, a friendship just wasn’t possible.

The presentation day came, and the two spoke with confidence that could only have come from weeks of preparation. Paulina couldn’t help but glow under Mr. Lancer’s impressed nod. Their high marks from the project were enough to fulfill Paulina’s recommendation to the honors English course for the next fall.

And then the school year came to a close and finally, after months of hard work, they could finally relax.

But not before they celebrated first.

One of Dash’s good friends, Dale, had taken it upon himself to host the massive end of the school year party for the rising junior class at Casper High that year. His parents, being the weird sort of chill parents they were, offered up their lake house with the promise that there would be no drinking and driving.

The teens were ecstatic. 

Everyone—everyone—went to the party. Jocks, nerds, band geeks, theatre kids, every clique was represented at the lake house. And why wouldn’t they come? It was the end of the school year celebration! A time to rejoice in having survived another round of homework, tests, quizzes, and essays.

It was also a time where Paulina was once again reminded that yes, the theatre kids could in fact go shot-to-shot with the football team.

Fenton was there with his little group, but Paulina paid them no mind. This wasn’t the time to be worried about him, nor was it the time to feel any sort of guilt at the way their budding friendship just collapsed. She had her friends, why add another?

And it was just preposterous to imply that she missed Fenton.

Because she didn’t.

And yet, when the night was drawing to a close, Paulina somehow managed to find herself down by the lake where a skinny, black haired teen was sitting alone.

She stood behind him, unsure if she wanted to initiate contact. He’d made it clear from their last argument that he still held years of resentment towards her and her friends, and Paulina knew from experience that all that resentment couldn’t go away in one alcohol-filled night.

She turned to walk away, but something stopped her. Before she could question what she was doing or why, she found herself sitting down on the damp grass next to him.

“What are you doing out here?” Paulina asked.

“Oh, uh, hey Paulina! Fancy seeing you here.” Danny gave her a small wave.

“You too.” Paulina stretched her legs out in front of her, leaning back on her hands. “Some party, right?”

“Yeah, Dale was really nice to host this.”

“He’s a great guy. His parents too.”

“I bet.” Danny said. “How are your friends holding up?”

“Well, let’s see. Star just spent a half hour trying to convince me that aliens exist, and Dale’s currently comforting Kwan who saw a video of a puppy rescue on the side of the road and started crying, so I’d say they’re holding up pretty well.”

Danny guffawed. “No way!”

“I swear!” Paulina laughed. “This isn’t even the first time something like this has happened either. I swear, every other time we drink, Kwan always ends up in a corner somewhere watching animal videos on his phone and crying at how precious the animals are and ‘please, Paulina, can’t we just adopt one?’ He’s gonna be the death of me one of these days.”

Danny giggled, his laugh light and airy. Paulina watched him, amazed that they were able to just start talking again as if their fight had never happened.

“So what about you?” she asked. “What happened to your clan?”

“Sam had to drive Tucker home. He got too overconfident in pong.”

She snorted. “Dash is the same. He’s always like, ‘one more round, I’m gonna crush it this time’ and then twenty minutes later I find him asleep in a bathtub or something.”

“Dash drunk sleeping in a bathtub? Oh, that’s a sight I’d like to see.”

“I can assure you that photos exist.”

“The perfect blackmail.” Fenton shot her a grin. “Remind me to get one of Tucker next time he does something stupid.”

“And what makes you think you won’t be right there on the floor with him?” Paulina sassed.

“Hah! You’re probably right!” His smile fell, and he looked at her questioningly. “Hey, will your boyfriend be okay with you out here with me?”

“Oh, Dash? He’s...actually not my boyfriend.”

“Wait, what?” Danny jolted upright. He spun around to face her. “But I thought—”

“Yeah, everyone does. But we’re not dating.”

“Then why don’t you say something? Squash all the rumors?”

Paulina averted her gaze back onto the lake. It was a gorgeous night. Stars speckled the sky in a spectacular display, illuminating the Milky Way behind them. Amity Park was too industrious to see the galaxy, and Paulina couldn’t help but marvel at its sight. 

It was gorgeous. Vast. It seemed to never end. She remembered reading somewhere that the Milky Way could only be seen if there was no moon out.

Luck must have been on her side that night.

“Unless...you don’t want to.” Danny’s voice dawned a tone of realization. “But why?”

“I got tired of it all,” she admitted, her honesty surprising herself. “Guys only wanted to talk to me because they thought if they were nice enough, I would get in their pants or something. I got accused of friendzoning more people than not. Honestly, it was so annoying. I felt everyone saw me as some stupid object. So when the rumors started going around this year that Dash and I were dating, and a lot of guys in our grade started backing off, I just...didn’t fight it. I thought maybe finally everyone would see me as a person. Maybe people would take me seriously.” Her gaze dropped. “I don’t know if it worked, but at least now people don’t see me as some sort of prize so much anymore.”

Danny was silent for a moment, and Paulina immediately regretted her admission. Maybe it was the alcohol loosening her lips, but she doubted Fenton of all people cared. They weren’t even friends.

One side of her wanted to get up and leave, go back to her friends inside the house, but the other side of her was too embarrassed to move.

“That makes sense, honestly,” Danny finally responded.

A wave of relief washed over her.

“And I’m sorry that there was a time where I couldn’t see past your looks too. I was young, but that’s still not an excuse.” He shifted. “I’ve had some...things happen the past year, and they’ve really taught me a lot about judging a book by its cover.”

“What kinds of things?” Paulina said, hoping her voice didn’t betray too much curiosity.

There went that hand behind his neck again. He was nervous, Paulina noted.

“Oh! Uh...it’s a long story, but I just wanted to say that I understand. I get what it feels like to be judged based on surface-level stuff. I mean, Paulina, you’re really smart. I don’t know if I told you this, but I’m really glad we ended up partners on that English project. I would have been so screwed with anyone else.”

“Thanks, Danny,” she said, trying to fight the blush that she knew was tinting her cheeks. “I’m sorry for being nosy at the end there. I didn’t mean to corner you like that. It was really stupid of me to pry when you obviously didn’t feel like talking.”

“No!” he exclaimed “No, don’t apologize! I was just being sensitive. Honestly, I knew I looked like shit.” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Look, I didn’t fall obviously. I wasn’t trying to play you, I just panicked. But...I’m okay now, really.”

He looked at her, and Paulina noted how his blue eyes seemed to dance under the light of the stars. How he sat up straighter, his shoulders rolled back and head held high. How yes he was thin, but not scrawny like he was back in freshman year of high school. He seemed toned, lithe, almost like a gymnast. 

Danny had definitely grown up in the past two years, but then again, so had she.

“I’m glad you’re okay, and I’m also glad I got to be your English partner too,” she said.

They sat by the lake watching the stars until the chill of the crisp spring air began to set in Paulina’s bones. She left Danny in favor of the warm house, but not without saying, “I’ll text you sometime.”

The summer came, and the ever so slightly intoxicated promise to hang out slipped Paulina’s mind. After all, she had months of sleep to catch up on. 

Fortunately for her, Danny remembered. 

It was a silly text, a meme about Shakespear. Paulina responded with the appropriate emojis, and tried to convince herself that the smile she wore was due to the funny image, and had nothing to do with the boy who sent it.

And a week later, he sent another one. This time, Paulina asked to grab a coffee with him. Catch up.

To her surprise, Danny agreed. They met up at the Starbucks and what Paulina thought would only be a quick catch-up session turned into a three hour long hangout. 

Despite his awkward demeanor, Danny was rather talkative. Especially when the topic revolved around space. Apparently, he wanted to work for NASA someday. He said it came from a childhood dream of becoming an astronaut, but overtime his interests shifted into rocket design and engineering. It helped that—according to Danny—his dad had built the equivalent of an ecto-rocket in his basement.

Paulina confessed that she wanted to work for 60 Minutes someday as a journalist. She dreamed of traveling around the world, collecting stories and meeting people. She explained that as a kid, she used to have to travel around the world for her dad’s work before he finally settled in Amity Park. And although she’d been living in Amity for years now, a part of her still missed those days where she was constantly exposed to new countries, languages, and cultures.

Danny listened attentively, reacting at the appropriate times and pressing for questions whenever she would trail off. Even though he had a reputation of never paying attention to teachers, he seemed to genuinely enjoy listening to her.

Eventually they parted ways, but they promised to hang out again. 

And again they did.

And again.

Again.

There were some topics that Danny seemed to skirt around, such as why he sometimes would show up bruised, or why he seemed to struggle to stay in class despite his dreams of working for a prestigious agency like NASA.

But Paulina was willing to ignore those demons because she liked Danny, and she didn’t want to say anything that would push him away. And, despite their differences, he seemed to like her back.

Summer drifted to fall, the leaves started to turn, and soon it was too cold to hangout outside. 

Which was how they found themselves here, in Danny’s room, laying on Danny’s floor watching Youtube videos, their math homework long since abandoned beside them.

It was a nerdy video, one about bizarre planets that existed in space. One that Paulina would never have watched on her own, but Danny seemed positively riveted at. 

His eyes were bright and attentive, and every so often he’d point to the screen and go, “Look!” as if Paulina wasn’t watching the same video.

It was...adorable.

His excitement rivaled a child on Christmas. And as interesting as the video was to watch, Danny was even more so.

The video ended, but Paulina hardly noticed. All she could see was the grin on Danny’s lips, the freckles dotting his cheeks, the way his hair sat on his head like a soft cloud.

“So? What did you think?” Danny asked.

“Cute,” Paulina responded. “You’re cute.”

Danny blinked, his mouth turning to a little “o” shape as red tinged his cheeks. He started to stutter, to try to brush Paulina off, but she held onto his shoulder and said, “Danny, I think you’re cute.”

“Oh,” he said, his eyes wide. “I think you’re cute too.”

Paulina closed the gap between them, closing her eyes. His lips felt soft against hers, and her heart fluttered in her chest. Her hands trailed up to his hair, and she curled her fingers through his soft hair.

He was gentle, as if he were afraid to hurt her, and his skin felt cool against her own. Secretly, Paulina had always loved that about Danny, the fact that his body temperature seemed to run lower than normal. And now she could cherish this all to herself.

Danny’s hand wrapped around her back, gently pressing her closer. His touch was electric, and Paulina could have melted right there. She pressed further against him, deepening the kiss.

They stayed in each other’s arms, enjoying the moment for just a few moments longer before Danny pulled back. He looked at her, his eyes sparkling, and said, “You’re beautiful.”

There were some things Paulina didn’t understand about Danny. There were some things he was still closed off about, things he didn’t want to speak about. And eventually, Paulina would bring those things up, she would get answers. Eventually, she would uncover all the secrets, all the layers to the enigma that made up Danny Fenton.

But right now?

Right now she was just going to enjoy the moment.

[midearthwritings]

Of Courtship and Patience (PART 1)

It took Naya many decades and three courtship proposals before giving her heart to Thorin.

Words Count : 2,188

Warning : Canonical Character Death, Grief

Author's Note : Ok so, little bit of context. The first part is set between TA 2793 and 2799, during the War of Dwarves and Orcs. I tried to stay as close to the story as possible. I'm really f-ing nervous because this is my first ever OC fic. Hope you will enjoy it.

And a big thank you to my #1 cheerleader @laurfilijames for helping me proof reading this and for her eternal support.

“Will they return to us?” 

Dís’ trembling voice made Naya look up at her. Her face, which was always so calm and composed, was distorted with fear and sorrow. 

Erebor was long lost, and exile had been forced onto them. It took years to get accustomed to the fact that they would never see the Lonely Mountain again. And after losing a home and being condemned to wander the world in search of somewhere to live, one would think there wasn’t much left to lose. It seemed the Gods did not share the same opinion for uncertainty and grief had been haunting the two young ladies’ nights lately.

Even without a king, those who could handle a weapon were taken away to battle. Even without a kingdom, the line of Durin was royalty. Therefore, they were the firsts to run into the deadly embrace of war. Death was their duty.

Slowly, Naya slid her hand into Dís’ in a gesture she hoped was reassuring enough.

“I cannot promise such a thing,” she said in a soft tone. “ For hoping too much might kill you if they do not come back. We can only wait.” 

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, like a whisper carrying the saddest news and comforting them at the same time. It warmed their hearts when it had destroyed all they ever had, leaving them with nothing but their tears. 

Far from here, far from the safety of these walls, those they cherished the most were fighting vile creatures, exposing their souls to Death’s greedy fingers. Naya’s guts twisted and her eyes dropped to the floor. 

“If we lose them, Dís, will our friendship survive?”

A strong hand grabbed her face and forced her eyes to lock with Dís’. They were burning with determination, challenging her to repeat what she had said.

“Silly, if we lose them, you will be all I have left. So do not say such words, even to jest. I cannot bear the thought of having my greatest friend parted from me.”

The younger lady’s lips curved into a smile, a crooked one for the fingers digging into her cheeks made it hard. It made Dís smile as well, one mirroring the other. Mahal might have not crafted them to be each other's One, but surely, he had made them be the perfect reflection of the other's soul. They were like two sides of the same blade, held together by a bond so strong that neither time, life, or death would ever be able to break.       

      Although time did not break them apart, it did break their hearts. Many moons had passed without hearing from anyone. Dís, as well as Naya, had started to mourn the death of their brothers and friends. Or, at least, their disappearance. They had lost any hope of seeing them ever again. And so one day, they stopped praying for the Gods to have mercy, and silence replaced their hopeful chatter as they held each other’s hand every night. 

One morning, however, someone pounded loudly on Dis’ wooden door. Naya left her baking aside and went to open it. Perhaps was it that dwarf again, the one that was eyeing Dís like she was the most precious thing in this world. Naya wiped her hands onto her apron and pulled the door open.

It was not Dís’ suitor. She could not believe her eyes, at first. But there Thorin was, standing in the doorway, waiting for her to let him in. 

“Mahal, are my eyes fooling me?” She breathed out. “Thorin, is that really you?” 

The words had barely left her mouth when she heard Dís running down the stairs, her footsteps resonating inside the house like a thunderstorm. But all she could focus on was Thorin's blue eyes on her. They reminded her of the clear spring sky, full of promises of new beginnings. It was like when the sun was back from its long sleep, awakening the flowers and birds and people's hearts. And perhaps, at this moment, something did bloom in Naya's heart. 

             She did not hear  Dís call her brother's name and barely registered when she pushed past her to drag him into a tight embrace.

“Oh brother, I thought I would never see you again!” she exclaimed.

“Fear not, sister. A few cuts and scratches are all I had to go through.”

Naya smiled fondly. Dís’ love for Thorin washed over her, making her heart beat faster inside her chest. Only now did she realize it was not a dream. He had come back to them with almost no wounds and, most importantly, alive.

She stepped forward and laid her hand on Dís’ shoulder. Her friend pulled back, releasing Thorin from her arms. He was changed. His features had been hardened by war and his eyes were clouded with something she could not quite pinpoint.

“Won’t you embrace me as well?” 

Thorin’s deep voice sent shivers down her spine and she wrapped her arms around his body. He had lost weight, and she would have to make sure he regained all of it. But he hadn’t lost his muscles. She buried her face in his mane, but its softness wasn’t enough to make the coppery smell of blood go unnoticed. At this moment, Thorin felt like a stranger and like home all at once. 

“Your sister missed you greatly.” Naya whispered, only for him to hear.

“And you?” he asked in an equally low tone.

Naya chuckled and tightened her grip. She had missed him more than the sun missed the moon, more than the birds missed the trees covered in leaves during summer.  

“Yes, Thorin, I did.”

They let go of each other slowly as if to make the moment last longer. She could feel Dís’ eyes on her back, scrutinizing them. She stepped back, giving the prince some space, and offered a smile to her friend. 

“You must be tired, and hungry,” Naya said. “Get yourself comfortable, we will make something for you to eat.”

And so they did. Soon enough, the three of them were sitting at the table, sharing a meal. It was mostly Thorin who ate, in fact, for Naya and Dís did not feel the need to. Surrounded by comforting silence, they watched him eat, making sure he had everything he needed. But peace was something people were granted only for a short amount of time. 

“Thorin, when will Frerin come back?” Dís asked in a voice so timid Naya thought it wasn’t really her who had spoken up.

The prince looked up to his sister and Naya finally understood what it was that filled his eyes. It was grief. Frerin would not return. 

It did not take long for Dís to understand as well. She nodded slightly, tears threatening to fall, but she did not cry. She would when no one was looking because it was how royalty mourned the death of their loved ones. Naya was not royalty. Yet, she kept her head up and held back her tears to pay her respect to Frerin’s family and his memory. 

The following days, candles were lit in memory of the lost heir of Durin. They shone brightly like little stars, guiding Frerin into Mahal’s Halls. Naya held Dís as she grieved, but no words were able to soothe the excruciating pain that had taken over the princess’ heart.

Naya had hoped Thorin would help her, that he would stay by his sister’s side and comfort her, but no one had seen him for days. He had barely returned to them and he was already gone again. She felt anger towards him. For years, he had been away, battling against creatures that wanted him dead, and when Dís needed him the most, he was nowhere to be seen. Naya would have his head if he did not make an appearance soon.

One night, after they had stopped lighting candles and Dís was resting, he came to find her. It was late, and sleep had abandoned her. So she was baking again, hoping to silence the dark thoughts. She heard him coming from behind, his footsteps barely audible like those of a mouse. 

“Have you finally found some interest in your sister’s feelings?” she spat out, keeping her back to him. 

“Naya, I must speak to you.” 

She spun around, her blood boiling with rage. Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked up to him.

“No Thorin,” she said accusingly, her index finger digging into his chest. “It is I who must speak to you. We have not seen, nor heard from you in years. The thought that maybe you had passed away has kept us awake at night. Although I am more than delighted to have you back, you had no right to abandon your sister again. Mahal, Thorin, do you not care for Frerin’s death?”

His hand enveloped her wrist, carefully pushing it away. The feeling of Thorin’s calloused fingertips on her sensitive skin made her heart skip a beat.

“I do care for my brother,” he explained. “Crying over his death will not bring him back to life.”

“Then it is very selfish of you to believe everyone grieves the way you do.” 

They stayed quiet for a while, standing close to each other, their breath mingling together. Through the kitchen window the pale moonlight poured onto Thorin’s face and made his eyes look like the most precious jewels Naya had ever been blessed to see.

“I apologize for neglecting my sister, and you. I hope you will find in your heart the will to forgive my behavior. In my defense, I have been busy.”

“What could be more important than your family, Thorin?” she asked quietly.

Slowly, the prince pulled something out of his coat. It was a folded piece of fabric that looked a little dirty. He handed it over to Naya and she took it, looking back and forth between Thorin and the small bit of material.

“What is it?” she questioned again.

“You must open it if you wish to find out.”

Carefully, she unfolded it, revealing a single metal bead lying in the center. It was beautifully crafted, intricate patterns engraved into it. As she looked closer she recognized some of the symbols. Her eyes widened and she looked back at Thorin. 

“Thorin, I-”

“Naya,” he interrupted, cupping her face with his palms. “This is a token of my love for you. I wish I could offer you more, I wish we were still in Erebor so I could treat you as you deserve. But no matter where or when, no matter the circumstances, I promise to honor and cherish you until Mahal calls us into his halls. In your hands lies my heart and the promise of my eternal love. Please, allow me to court you.” 

Naya’s heart was pounding inside her chest, and she feared Thorin might have heard it because his lips curved into a small smile. The moonlight hit the bead, and the soft light caught her eyes. Her eyes fell back onto the tiny object and she smiled softly.

“This is what you have been up to…” she concluded, her finger brushing against the cold metal. “It is very pretty, Thorin. Your skills are very impressive. But I must refuse-”

As she spoke, she folded the piece of fabric over the silver bead, hiding it from her view and Thorin’s hands fell to his side.

“Why is that, if I may ask? Is it not to your liking? I could make you another one.”

“No Thorin, it is not that.” she said, giving him his gift back. “I must say, your feelings are returned. My heart beats for you, trust me. But we are still young, Thorin. As we grow up, your heart will change and desire other things. I do not wish for you to promise me love when your One could still be out there.”

The prince shook his head and grabbed her hips, pulling her against his chest, causing Naya to huff disapprovingly.

“I do not think my heart will ever love anyone but you.” Thorin affirmed.

Naya chuckled, her forehead falling to his shoulder. She stayed silent, enjoying the warmth of Thorin’s body against hers. 

“How about…” she began, pulling back. “ How about you wait some more? If your love for me has not faded, decades from now, you may propose again.”

She looked at him as he seemed to be considering her offer. Finally, he gave her a small nod.

“I shall wait then.” he declared. “Until then, allow me to steal a kiss?”

“Now, Thorin,” she joked, tilting her head to the side and wrapping her arms around his waist. “That wouldn’t be proper, much less from a prince, to steal kisses outside of courtship, don’t you think? Although, I can grant you this-”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his bearded cheek. And the smile she earned from it was worth more than all of the gold in the world.

He would wait for her, and she would wait for him.

[animemangasoul]

Who Are You?

Summery: A Wizard takes away Tim’s memories of his least important person. Unfortunately for Damian, that’s him.

He doesn’t remember him. Doesn’t remember the little kid with the pinched face and uncertain eyes. He looks at him and he feels... something, but it’s not enough so he doesn’t pursue it. Just gives the little guy a wide smile and asks him his name. He must be important, he thinks. If he lives with Bruce.

“Damian.” The words are spoken softly, hesitantly, but they are also firm, strong. Tim feels like if he had known him, he would have admired him for that.

Instead he smiles even wider and reaches out a hand. “Tim,” he says in return and something flashes in the kid’s eyes; the sharp gaze darting between his outstretched hand to his face and then back to his hand again. Tim frowns. Maybe they hadn’t gotten along back--

But the kid doesn’t give him a chance to retract his offer, darting forward almost in desperation as he lungs forward to sandwich Tim’s fingers between his own two hands. “Pleasure to meet you again Timothy,” he blurts out; cheeks turning beat red as he does. But Tim can only smile, because the sincerity behind the halting words are very evident.

He wonders if they’d gotten along well.

He wonders if they did, why had he forgotten him.

The least important person the wizard had said..... So why Damian?

The rest of them, his family were firmly lodged in his brain. He could remember their every laugh, their every hug, tears, smiles, love. Good, bad, ugly. He remembered it all. Bruce with his confidence and safety, Cass with her warm hug and kisses. Dick with his laughter and comfort. Jason with his honesty and wild personality. Duke with his brilliance and gentleness. Alfred with his Alfredness.  

Remembering them wasn’t hard because the memories of them have never left him. So why Damian? Why him?

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

He wonders about it for the rest of the week. Especially when he hears the kid’s last name.

The little kid who skitters around the corners. The kid who doesn’t quite know how to laugh but his eyes would still manage to give him away every single time he found something funny.  

The little Robin who must have inherited the mantle after him and carried it with dignity and respect that must have made Tim’s heart bloom with pride.

Damian Wayne.

His little brother.

His only little brother.

And yet..... He didn’t remember him.

Least important.

Why?

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

Dick finds him one morning standing in front of the family portrait. The hall is empty except for the two of them, and when Dick comes to a stop next to him, neither speaks for a long while.

Tim is busy examining the expressions on everyone’s faces. And Dick, well, Tim wasn’t quite sure what he was doing but he leaves him to it. Dick would talk when he felt like it and not a second earlier.

“If you can’t remember him, how do you remember Duke?”

The words are no louder than a whisper and Tim can feel the unease coming off of his older brother in waves, but he elects not to comment on it. Instead he shrugs and focuses his gaze on the little face of the forgotten kid standing regally next to Bruce.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know!”

Tim scoffs. “A wizard messed with my head Dick.”

His brother winces and Tim finds himself smiling at that. Damian and Dick were much alike. It was cute.  

“Did we get along?”

“What?”

Sighing, Tim leans forward to press a light finger against Damian’s painted face. “Did we get along? Me and Damian?” Scrutinizing the stern gaze and the almost hunched shoulders of the kid, Tim wonders what he must have been afraid of in this frozen moment. “I’ve always wanted a little brother you know.”

Dick remains quiet for an inordinate amount of time.  

His silence tells a full story, so when Dick finally musters up a casual. “Yes, but you were both just kids so you disagreed sometimes.” He hums in agreement and lets its slide.

Dick was lying to him but Tim did not elect to hold it against him.  

Pretty little lies could make even the best of men tempted in telling them and whatever dynamic he and Damian currently held most be infinitely better for Dick than their previous shared history.

Still, ‘strike one Dick,’ he thinks as he turns around to make his way down to the kitchen, he was hungry after all. ‘Lying doesn’t suit you big brother.’

“Wait.”

Foot frozen midair, Tim drags his eyes up from the stairs and back to the silent figure by the portrait. Dick looks so very still.

“Yeah?”

One hand coming up to run through his hair, his older brother gives him a sheepish smile; eyes gleaming suspiciously but smile as sincere as ever.

“You got along better at the end. Damian he.... you guys weren’t.... you didn’t like each other in the beginning,” Dick pauses and there is pain there, in those words. Bitter pain. Protective, angry.  

Something most have been stolen from him too Tim supposes. And it hurts more because Dick remembers. Whatever built relationship he and Damian had most have meant more to Dick than he was letting on.

Interesting.

“Thank you for telling me.” He leaves at that. Not without a second glance or thought.

Dick doesn’t follow him. Tim thinks that’s for the best.

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

“You hated him?”

Tim blinks in surprise. “Really?”

Kon nods. Eyes on the bright screen and tongue sticking out in concentration. “Yup.”

“Why?”

Kon curses loudly; leaning back and dragging the controller with him to avoid the upcoming wall. “I don’t know man,” he grits out. “You never got along and Dick used to pit you guys against each other or something. Choosing sides and shit.”

“Why?”

Shrugging, his best friend elects not to answer the question. “Beats me.”

Frowning in confusion, Tim nods slowly. “That’s super weird right? I mean, Dick wouldn’t do something like that. That’s not who he is. Or at least who I remember him to be.”

Kon shrugs again. “Never liked the guy so don’t ask me dude.”

Tim thinks about it for a second but then he too picks up his controller and Kon restarts the game. It really didn’t matter in the end, did it?

So what if he’d hated Damian in the beginning for some weird reason. The kid seemed pleasant enough last time he saw him so maybe he’d changed. Jason had managed it after all and well, Tim had frequently encountered and even befriended less than decent people before. So a little kid like Damian couldn’t be quite that bad right?

Maybe he needed to have a sit down and actually talk to him.

Talking to everyone else about how he was supposed to feel about Damian wasn’t really working after all. They most have had some form of relationship if the kid looked hurt when he didn’t remember him. It couldn’t have been all antagonistic, their relationship. And it couldn’t have been all that great either.

Maybe they’d reached a sort of an in between.  

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

Finding the time to talk to Damian proves to be difficult. Not only is work literally drowning him in stress and gives him less free time than a man working three jobs but turns out Damian was avoiding him.

It becomes all too obvious when he turns a corner one day and is met with the startled gaze of the kid who then; unable to avoid him any other way, actually turns around abruptly and sprints away.  

Tim is left standing there with an outreached hand and a mouth open for a yell that never leaves his lips.

After that, it becomes more and more difficult to pin the kid down. No matter what he does; waking up early, coming home an hour before his time, choosing to patrol with batman instead of alone, he can’t seem to get the kid to talk to him.

Somehow, that hurts.

Not in the normal sense of faint disappointment. Not in the way of feeling sad because a stranger elected to be rude to you, no. It was this gut punching pain that just wouldn’t go away.  

He didn’t even know him, but it hurt. It really really hurt and Tim didn’t like that one bit.  

Damian Wayne.

He needs to talk to him. Nothing was going to fix this otherwise. Even if he doesn’t remember him, he.....

“He’s hiding at my apartment ya know. That’s why you can’t find him.”

Tim practically jumps out of his skin. “What the hell Jay!”

His older brother grins. A savage sort of smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he barely seems to refrain from outright laughing at him.  

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Jason snorts. “And if you wanna catch the little brat you better go now.” And with that he disappears behind the roofline, leaving Tim to glare after him.  

“Jerk.”

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

“Found you!”

This time it’s Damian’s turn to jump out of his skin and well, Tim would definitely be lying if he said he didn’t see why Jason loved doing it so much.

“What.... why are you here Drake?”

Landing soundlessly on the floor, Tim shuts the window behind him before shuffling over to where Damian is sitting, careful not to trigger another run. “I just want to talk.”

The little guy glares at him. A proper glare with death threats and all. Tim is mildly amused. “Won’t you give me five minutes? Please?”

Damian flinches. “I do not wish to speak with you Drake.” He sounds young and scared and..... Tim doesn’t quite understand how he could have ever hated this kid.

“I don’t remember you,” he says slowly, the words leaving his mouth easily enough, but somewhere deep down, at the very bottom of his soul he finds himself retching at the casualness with which he says them.

It doesn’t help that the kid can’t quite hide the brief flair of hurt that dances through his eyes.

Fuck.

“I already know that Drake,” he snaps, but Tim steps forward, waving his arms frantically. “I didn’t mean it like that ki—Damian!” Swallowing thickly, he tries to take a deep breath. “Look, I just..... I don’t remember you that’s true. But,” he carries on quickly preventing Damian from cutting him off. “I would like to remember you again and just...” here he gives a helpless shrug. “Wanna help me find the wizard who did this and make him change me back?”

Clearly that’s not what Damian had been expecting him to say, for his supposed little brother is standing on the other side of Jason’s living room, silently gaping at him.

Tim bites down on his tongue to stop himself from saying anything stupid that’ll ruin things. And then--

“Why?” Damian’s voice is angry and suspicious, but it’s also pained and confused and.... Tim just wants to hug him. No kid should ever look that forlorn, ever.

“I want my memories back and I want to remember you,” he answers instead, giving the kid his most winning smile.

“Why?”

Sighing, Tim drops the smile and gives the kid an almost helpless look, because..... what do you say to that? How can he possible explain the disparity between what he’s feeling and what he knows. That his mind might not recall the little kid in front of him, who looks so much like Bruce, but his heart does.  

How can he just....

“I think you’re worth remembering,” he settles for in the end. “You might not have been part of my most important memories, but you were still important to me and that’s why the spell worked.” This time when he tries to smile, it comes out rather sad, a bit empty, slightly heartbroken. “We were getting there, weren’t we? Becoming brothers?”

Damian looks away and that tells him everything.

“Let me remember you.” Tim says, an almost plea breaking through his faked bravado.

This time when Damian looks back at him, it’s not fear or hurt or pain he sees, but a quiet sense of determination. It’s shaky and still uncertain, but it eases something within Tim. “So what do you say?” He asks again just to make sure.

The kid nods. “Very well Drake. You have yourself a deal.”

Tim grins and Damian, well Damian smiles just the tiniest bit and for the first time in days, Tim feels as if something broken in his heart has finally been put back together again.

It’ll work out in the end. Tim wouldn’t let it end any other way.

The End

@punjabj-ninja @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @river9noble

Anyone else who wants to be tagged please let me know. Or untagged either way :)

[levisnackajack]

The Wrath of War

The link to the story in AO3 is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919136/chapters/70952145

Chapter Five

The sweet taste of victory lingered on her lips.

With all the pain, suffering and anguish; it was a very rare moment for Eden to feel anything but miserable. 

A soft sigh escaped through her lips as her horse galloped in sync with the rest of the Squad’s horses. They all seemed so intimidating. Except Petra; the only other female on the team. She had greeted Eden with wide, bright eyes and a gentle, reassuring pat on the shoulder. The younger girl could only smile meekly in return. She thought back to how she didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye to Armin and Mikasa; catching their blank, puzzled stares as Captain Levi shoved her towards her horse.

The horses ambled deeper into the woods, until the view of a huge, abandoned fortress lay in sight. Eden twisted her head to look back at Eren; but met Levi’s disinterested stare boring back at her instead. Her eyes narrowed as he maintained eye contact; very well aware of the fact that she looked a second away from snapping at him. 

It was as though he was testing her.

She turned back towards their destination, pulling on the reins gently; urging her horse to slowly cease his quick trot. 

“These are our headquarters for the time being. I expect the entire place to be spotless by sundown,” Levi commanded in a dull tone as he mounted off his horse; running his fingers across his own horse’s muzzle. 

Eden didn’t hear him; eyes trained on her own horse as she stared into its jeweled eyes. She stroked his mane, unable to believe that she was now responsible for this creature. She had never ridden a horse before today. Knowing very well she was being scrutinized by her new captain; she chose to deny him of that fact. Surprisingly, she was a natural. Her team would have probably assumed that she’s ridden horses for a hobby. 

“Oi. Are you deaf or something?” She leaped at the heavy hand that ripped her out of her own thoughts. Eden glanced back at the Captain as he glared at her through tired, narrow eyes. 

“No sir, I’m sorry.” She replied, staring back at him defiantly, unmoved. 

The tension in the air could have been sliced with a blade as Levi’s face twitched imperceptibly. 

He raised a brow, eyes darkening as he tipped his head to the side. “Want me to write the instructions down for you? Move.” 

Eden nodded, looking down as adrenaline rushed through her body at an immensely quick speed. She grabbed onto her horse’s reins and proceeded towards the stable. 

That’s until she heard the familiar scoff.

“Actually, since you’re already on your way to the stables; why don’t you tidy it all up for our horses? After all, they should be treated with respect too,” Levi announced, eyes glued to the back of Eden’s head. She could feel his stare burning through her skull, which made the hot feeling of anger spread through her entire body like wildfire. 

“Yes, sir,” She said through gritted teeth as she walked back towards him; passing him by a bear few inches as she snatched his own reins. His eyes narrowed but apart from that, stayed quiet. 

It was way after sundown when Eden had finished cleaning the horses and the stables. The place certainly screamed ‘abandoned.’ The stench was horrible and she gagged as soon as she walked through the wooded entrance. 

But after taking the time to open all the windows, scrub the floor and replace the water and hay; the odor had definitely lessened. 

“What did you do? Use yourself as a mop to clean the entire stables? You look filthy,” Levi’s voice leered from the entrance of the barrack. Eden picked herself up and frowned into the darkness, barely visualizing her Captain’s silhouette with the lack of moonlight. 

“Are you going to keep treating me like trash the entire time? I get it, your first impression of me isn’t exactly perfect but are you going to keep reminding me of it?” Eden called out when she didn’t hear Levi’s advancing footsteps. 

Then, that same pause shifted between them. It was gone in the blink of an eye, but it ridiculed Eden; mentally kicking her as she thought back to what she had just said to him. 

“If you can’t handle simple cleaning instructions, then what the hell are you doing in my squad?” He replied in a darker voice that made Eden’s jaw clench in annoyance. “Obviously Erwin saw some kind of potential in you to personally invite you in the Scout Regiment. But, don’t assume that just because that happened, I’ll be feeding you with a silver spoon. Now get yourself cleaned up and meet the rest of the group in the dining hall.” The sound of his boots grew fainter as he strode off. 

 Eden took a deep breath as she calmed her nerves, wiping the grime off her cheek with her sleeve. 

Thankfully, she met Petra upon entering the headquarters. The older woman nervously looked around them as Eden stepped in with her muddy boots. 

“Captain said your room is up the stairs; the second room to the right. I’m in the opposite hallway,” She said, her voice sweet and gentle. Her eyes kept flickering to Eden’s boots which finally called the younger girl to voice her thoughts. 

“Is there a problem?” 

Petra looked back at her, rubbing her back of her neck awkwardly. “Captain Levi is very strict when it comes to cleaning; if you haven’t noticed already. He made Eren clean the top floor three times because he kept finding dust under the desk and bookshelves. Not that I’m one to gossip, but with a childhood like his, I can understand his need to keep everything in immaculate condition.” 

“What do you mean by...-” the raven-haired girl began, only to have her words lose their trail in her mouth once she heard the sounds of the other team members echoing closer. 

Petra gave her a wary smile and ushered her towards the staircase. “Go on now. Rookies make mistakes. I’ll deal with this.” She looked down at the dirt footprints marking the stone floor as she pushed her strawberry locks behind her ears. 

Eden easily found her room. It was small, dark and incredibly cold. She shivered, eyes settling on the neatly folded uniform resting atop the bed. 

Her teeth grinded as she suppressed a cry once her naked body was met with the frosty water seeping out of her shower. She made sure to scrub all the filth she had gained after spending her first afternoon with Levi’s Squad cleaning the stables. 

The young soldier quickly dried herself and jumped into the uniform, tightening the straps on her boots and pulling her hair into a tight bun. She stared at herself in the mirror; surprised at the woman who stared back. 

With her hair slicked back, her cheekbones stood more defined against her porcelain skin. Her large, almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes and the arch of her brows symmetrical. She looked down at her uniform, gnawing on her lip as her palm glided over the soft material. 

She was a Scout and no matter how hard Levi would push her; she would prove how she was the best choice for his squad. 

“Fresh meat, you’re late,” the much older, blond man with defined wrinkles voiced once Eden made her way into the dining hall. Oluo Bozado, his name was. 

At the head of the table sat the captain, uniform crisp and clean; his tired eyes peaking through the longer strands of his hair concealing the top part of his face. He silently watched Eden over the brim of his tea cup as she soundlessly made her way to sit beside Petra. 

Eren looked at her from the other side of the table; his gray-blue eyes glimmering awkwardly. 

Petra offered Eden a cup simmering with tea, but Eden scrunched up her nose and shook her head slightly. Petra laughed softly. 

“You’re not a tea-drinker?” 

“Not at all. I prefer coffee,” Eden replied in a low voice, but it seemed to be loud enough for Levi to hear because he continued sipping on his own tea with a very disapproving look. 

She had heard about the captain’s love for tea. This was just another one of the many reasons that kept reminding her how much they clash.

Levi placed his cup back on the table and rapped his fingers on the wooden table. 

“For the next few days we will reside here and train. Hange is on her way to meet Eren. You’ll be spending your time with her, you lab rat,” Levi muttered, shooting Eren a glare as he looked down at his own cup of tea. 

Eden sat quietly listening to her fellow teammates conversate. She soon found out the rest of the men’s names; Eld Jinn who was second in command and Gunther Schultz. 

Oluo turned his pompous stare towards the quiet, small girl and snorted. “What made such a fragile girl like you join the military? Tired playing with dolls all day?” He grunted as Petra kicked him under the table angrily. 

“I’m not fragile,” Eden replied in a calm manner albeit the white knuckles she hid under the table. “As a matter of fact, I plan on showing you exactly how fragile I am tomorrow during sparring.” 

Oluo raised a brow and let out another humorless snort. “Please. I’ll be done with you before you can wipe the snot from your nose.” 

“That’s enough,” Levi spoke, his stern glare focused nowhere in particular. He turned his eyes to Eden, who had bitten her lip to the point where she could taste the specks of her own blood. 

“Our goal is to find out exactly what the hell is going on with Yeager. Can you tell us more about your new talent?” 

Eren swallowed hard, his mouth parting as he began to speak.

“I’m terribly sorry I’m late! Please excuse me, Captain!” A loud, piercing voice interrupted the young boy. 

A tall, older woman barged through the doors with a lopsided grin carved onto her face. She had her messy hair pulled up in a ponytail; wide eyes concealed behind the glasses wrapped around her head. She winked at the captain, who in turn completely disregarded her, choosing to focus on his empty cup of tea. 

She stopped, eyes jumping from Eren to Eden. 

“My name is Hange Zoë, leader of Squad Four. Eren and...Eden, right?” 

Both cadets nodded tightly. 

“The pleasure is all mine. Tell me, how does it feel to know your friend over here possesses such capabilities?” She walked over to the raven-head; leaning over the top of her chair. 

Eden swallowed thickly as she stared into Eren’s eyes. “I think he’s the key to saving humanity.” 

Her quipped response earning another grunt from Oluo as Petra sat beside her silently. Hange squealed in response. 

“I can only imagine what answers lie in that pretty head of yours!” She hopped around the table, patting Eren on the head. He frowned deeply. 

“Nevertheless, I can fill you in on what research I’ve gathered so far on this topic. It’ll take some time, but I’m sure it could light a bulb in your brain,” she continued, pulling the seat beside Eren hungrily. 

The rest of the team stood up abruptly, muttering incoherent excuses about why they want to be dismissed. 

Levi gave a stiff nod and the crew dispersed; leaving himself, Eden, Hange and her new experiment sitting around the wide table. 

Facts, stories and drabbles spewed out of Hange’s mouth as she begin uncovering a whole line of events that led them to believe Titans hide much more in those thick heads of theirs. 

Eden was interested at first, but as the stories continued expanding, she felt her eyes slowly droop until someone kicked the leg of her chair. 

She yelped, jumping out of her seat and against Levi’s solid chest. The girl stepped back, jaw clenching as he sent her a wary glare.

“Go to bed, brat. Tomorrow, I plan on checking just how good you are at sparring personally. If you fail because you preferred lingering around listening to Four-eyes’ fairytales; that’s on you.” He turned and walked out of the dining room. 

Eden pinched the bridge of her nose, letting go of an exasperated breath before heading back towards her room. 

She was gone before her head had hit the stiff pillow. 

[melioramercy]

i didn’t mean to, but i know it still hurts

spencer reid x nonbinary partner (afab) (they/them/theirs)

in which spencer accidentally misgenders his partner

this is my first fic ! how groovy is that ?

note: misgendering is defined as the following: [to] refer to (someone, especially a transgender person) using a word, especially a pronoun or form of address, that does not correctly reflect the gender with which they identify.

if you’d like to chat about gender (respectfully) my asks are open xx ruby

dating spencer reid was wonderful. truly, you had no idea how you’d gotten so lucky. he was kind without trying, attentive to your needs, and would never do anything to hurt your feelings. not on purpose, anyway. but when he did, he was quick to apologise, curling up on the couch with you and kissing your head. he knew you typically brooded in silence, choosing to let what was bothering you wash over you in full before attempting to sort anything out. this way, you didn’t say anything you didn’t mean. you two always sorted out conflicts peacefully, and only ended up crying because you loved each other so much and you never wanted to be mad at the other. because of this, he was more than happy to sit with you in silence, weathering your storm together.

spencer didn’t know you were nonbinary when you first met. that was ten months ago, back when you only knew him as the cute, clumsy guy who frequented the same park as you. he liked to play chess, you learned, while he noticed you practicing complex yoga poses just a stone’s throw past him. the two of you maintained a respectful distance from one another, though you snuck glances at him, admiring the way his tongue poked out between his lips, and how quickly his hands darted around the board. he never noticed you staring, the same way you didn’t notice his eyes bashfully skating over your figure, sucking in a breath as your shirt rode up, revealing your colourful sports bra and soft tummy.  

you’d existed in the same space, bearing witness to one another’s leisure activities for nearly four months before you interacted beyond a slight smile or shy wave. some days, he sat propped against a tree, reading a thick book or sketching. you were physically closer than ever when he sat under the tree, but you couldn’t have felt further apart. on the days he had a notebook in front of him, pencil sliding across the paper, his gaze never wavered, and you couldn't help but secretly hope he was drawing a portrait of you. spurred on by your daydream, you decided to try out more skillful poses, subconsciously trying to break his concentration, but no dice.  

it wasn’t until you fell out of a handstand and face-planted that the force field between you two broke. he jumped up from his spot under the tree and ran over to you, wiping dirt off your forehead and holding your face as he checked for any scrapes or bruises. you hoped his warm hands couldn’t feel the way your cheeks burned as he scrutinized you. you let out a breathy laugh mixed with a gasp as you realized how close he was. from here, you could see the green around his pupils, blooming into a gorgeous hazel. the wind teased the curls you’d longed to run your hands through. as if jolted by an unseen presence, he realized how close he was to you, quickly dropping his hands from your face and pulling away.

“uh, sorry,” he said, brushing off his pants as he stood.

“no, no, really, it’s okay. thank you. i usually practice my handstands at home, with lots of cushions around.” damn, he was so cute. you tugged your shirt down, suddenly feeling self-conscious in your tight, printed leggings, toes wriggling into the grass.

you stared at each other, unsure of what to say. was it wrong to want his hands back on your face, kissing you like his life depended on it?

“i’m y/n,” you offered.

“spencer.”

“well, it’s lovely to meet you, spencer. thank you again.” shit, was this really going to end here?

“yeah, uhm, you too. y/n.” the words brought a smile to your face, and you loved the way your name fit in his mouth.

he rocked on his feet, as if he were working up the courage to say something.

“okay... bye.” and just like that, he turned to leave. no, no no no no. fuck, think, y/n, think!

“hey!” you shouted, loud enough to startle him. as soon as he turned around, you were blurting out, “do you wanna go out sometime?”

***

you told spencer about your pronouns, along with your gender identity, on the date you’d scheduled for the following weekend, pending his schedule didn’t change. he didn’t offer up any information about his job, or what made his schedule so wonky, and you didn’t ask. you wanted to know anything you could about the man you’d seen at the park so many times, but you didn't want to push him.

you’d agreed to take a walk in the park before heading to a nearby restaurant for dinner. you wanted to give him an easy out, in case he changed his mind about you. you wore a simple top with linen pants and sandals, while he wore a more casual version of what you’d seen him wearing before. slacks, a button-down sans sweater vest, and converse. you met up at the tree you’d seen him reading under before, savouring the way he complimented you. beginning to walk the path, you worked up the nerve to confess your truth.

“so,” you began. “i’ve gotta get something out of the way.” you saw a flash of panic in his eyes, opting to continue before he could ask any questions.

“i’m nonbinary.”

he stopped walking, letting out a breath before turning to you. fuck, you thought. this is it. he’s gonna be scared off just like everyone else before him. considering how long you'd hoped for this moment, this would be the hardest loss of them all. but you couldn't compromise yourself, in the same way you wouldn't be able to change his mind if he thought your gender identity was too much baggage.

you were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t see the smile on his face. you also realized neither of you had said anything since your initial admission.

“spencer?” his name sounded like a plea, with a tinge of hope lining your voice.

“okay.”

“okay?” that’s it?

“what pronouns would you like me to refer to you with?”

the question was one you’d heard before, but it sounded so much... better coming from him. you felt a flutter in your heart, a smile budding on your face as he slipped his hand into yours.

“y/n," you reintroduced yourself. "they/them/theirs.”

he nodded at that, beginning to walk again. you didn’t expect him to speak again, and you definitely weren't expecting what he said next.

“spencer,” he said. “he/him/his.”

you squeezed his hand, the flutter in your heart replaced with something different, something... warm. you really hoped this would last.

***  

ten months later, you were sat at the kitchen table, having breakfast for dinner, with your boyfriend recalling some conversation he’d had with the team.

“and i told morgan, y/n always stays up waiting for me on the couch, but sometimes she falls asleep and-”

he immediately froze, not missing the way you flinched behind your coffee mug. for a second, he thought he should’ve just kept talking, quickly correcting himself and continuing with the story. he knew you disliked when people made a big deal out of messing up your pronouns, but he couldn’t help himself.

“y/n, i-”

you were quick to cut him off.

“spence, it’s okay. it was an accident.” your voice didn’t reveal your hurt, but spencer didn't miss the look in your eyes, the way your brow furrowed as you tried to keep his slip up from getting to you. it wasn't personal. it was an accident. but it still hurt.

“y/n, i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” he started rambling, leaving you no room to interrupt. “i’m sorry, i know your pronouns. i would never misgender you on purpose or do anything to hurt you.” he reached across the table, grabbing your hands and squeezing them tightly. “you’re my y/n/n, my beanie. i love you so much. i’m sorry.”

he'd started weeping at the initial mess up, but now he was fully crying, harder than you'd ever seen. it scared you more than it confused you. why was he so upset?  

“spence, baby, it’s okay,” you begged him to believe you, but he only dropped his head against your hands, his tears wetting your skin. “spencer,” you said, more insistently. 

you sighed, realizing he wasn’t letting up. you pulled your hands out from under his head, hoping he’d look up at you, but he dropped his head onto the table instead. what was up with him? seriously, people called you “she” all the time, and it was rarely malicious. you were used to it, but he was always bothered, correcting people so you didn’t have to. he really was the perfect boyfriend.  

abruptly, you stood up, grabbing his arm and pulling with all your weight. he gave in, letting you drag him to the couch. you sat down, the worn leather squeaking as you tucked your feet under yourself. you tugged him down to sit next to you, cradling his head against your chest like he'd done with you so many times before when you were upset. you kissed his forehead and stroked his hair until his breathing slowed down.

“you okay, baby?” your words were met with a murmur, but it was better than nothing. “spence?”

you tilted his head so you could look each other in the eye.

“what’s going on, lovey?”

it was his turn to sigh, his nostrils flaring as his big ole brain searched for the right words.

“i’m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean it, but i know it still hurts. your pronouns are part of you, and i’ve seen first-hand how much it bugs you when someone refers to you as ‘she’ or ‘her.’ i know you take it personally, and i don't blame you. i know i'll never understand how much it affects you, or why, and i never, ever, want to be the person who makes you feel that way.”

“i know, spence, it’s okay.”

“but it’s not, y/n!” his words were frantic, but he took a deep breath to try and calm himself. “i’m sorry. i just, i’ve never messed up before.”

so that’s what is was. god, on the one hand, you were grateful he took it so... personally? no. you couldn’t put your finger on it, but the fact that he cared so much made you feel loved, and seen. he knew how much it hurt you, and it hurt him just as much.

“baby, thank you.”

he looked you right in the eye, confused as to why you were thanking him.

“thank you, for loving me. for being you. spence, i... i’ve never had anyone who’s cared so much. you’re right, it does hurt, but i love you. i know you didn’t mean any harm, and i know you would never do it on purpose. you don’t have to beat yourself up, okay?”

he still seemed upset, so you reached around, hooking your pinky with his. his lip quirked up at that, and he adjusted so he could press his palm to yours, entwining your fingers.

“i love you, beanie.”

“i love you, too, baby. so so much.”

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 10

Previous: Searching for Seokjin Pt. 2

Pairings: Light Jungkook x Reader 

Genre: Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Government Agent AU, Slice of Life

Ratings: PG13

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: She finds Taehyung at the local dog park, an unfamiliar face by his side. 

Tailing Taehyung

Present Day

          I’ll be honest, this is my favorite part of the job. Music low, tinted windows, unmarked baseball cap adorning my head, GPS tracking my every move so I can retrace my steps. I’ve already downed a grande latte, two bagels and a family sized bag of sour skittles. But it’s the quiet waiting, the planning of every move, the sleuthing and interpreting, anticipating another person’s every move.

         Kim Seokjin is predictable. He gets up, goes to work, comes home. There’s no romantic partner, no gym time, nothing. His office building, non-descript, standard skyscraper. It’s painful how predictable he is. Which is why after three days, I begin to search for another name on Euna’s list. Kim Taehyung.

         He’s easier to track, beloved librarian, he works at the downtown branch where he packs the house for his weekly story hour. Costumes, characters, voices, he commands the room, never demanding adoration because it’s so freely given. His name at the Library, though, is not Kim Taehyung, but Jung Taehyung, as if he got married and changed his name without telling anyone. My only indication that they’re the same person are photos from Euna.

         Tailing Taehyung is thrilling. He’s going to book launches, gallery openings, museum exhibits, clubbing, and on a few nights, stays late to close the library. Those are my favorite, he puts headphones on and dances around the library, re-shelving children’s books and shaking his ass. He lives across town from Seokjin, in a quaint house with a green door. He seems to have an abundance of friends, rarely goes out with the same people twice in one week. No partner on record, no flirting or taking someone home with him. He does have a dog, something he must’ve picked up after leaving the Lee’s.

         Picking up Johnson from my sister’s house, I park near the dog park by Taehyung’s house, a frequent weekend spot. He might go to different clubs every Thursday or try a new restaurant with a pair of gentlemen, but he goes to the same dog park on both Saturday and Sunday, then to the coffee shop on the corner, where he tries a new drink on Saturday. If he likes the drink, he gets it again on Sunday, but if he hates it, he picks something new. He never orders coffee, only tea and juice concoctions. How he exists, with all that energy, and no coffee, I will never understand.

         Another thing I will never understand is Johnson. A golden doodle with a slight limp, she’s both deeply loving and simultaneously polarizing. She runs hot and cold, licking you one minute, growling the next. There’s no reason for her split personality, her ability to turn on a dime, but I’d like to think Johnson is struggling with her identity and would really benefit from therapy. At two years old, still fully a puppy, she has gone to obedience school three times, and is only truly unkept when forced to be with humans for too long. The dog park is her happy place. She loves running around, sniffing everything, frolicking in the grass, no leash, totally free.

         What a blessing to borrow my sisters fur baby to ensnare Kim Taehyung.

         Maisy pulls me towards the dog park, excitement coursing through her body. It takes everything in me to not drop the leash and let her go, but she has a high chance of running into traffic and her death cannot be on my conscience. Within moments of stepping into the park, I spot Taehyung and his little pup. A black and gold Pomeranian, he weighs the same as Johnson’s front paws. Taehyung stands, sunglasses on, black hair parted slightly to reveal his honeyed forehead. He looks too cool for school, and I’d believe he was, if he wasn’t laughing energetically at the man to his right. The man is familiar, one of the usual men he tries a new restaurant with every Tuesday.

         Setting Maisy free, I move around the park, monitoring her, hoping she’ll land exactly where I want her to.

         The initial contact with a mark, or suspect, is the most precarious. I can’t come on too strong, can’t give too much away or seem too eager. I have to have every moment planned in order to get the information I need. In this case, it’s getting close enough that I can speak with Tae to find out what he knows regarding Lee Euna and her family, and maybe see if he’ll drop hints about her manifesto.

         I circle the park, my eyes on Johnson and Taehyung, slowly moving closer to the man and his friend.

         “Did you catch the end of the game last night?” The other man asks.

         “No, was I supposed to?” Taehyung responds.

         “It’s too early in the season to be calling it, but they’ve got a chance to go to the Superbowl,”

         “Huh,”

         “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt,” I say, turning my body to face them. “Is that your dog? The little one?”

         “Yeah, it is,” Taehyung answers, smiling lightly at me.

         “It’s so cute, what’s its name?”

         “Yeontan, or Tannie,”

         “Adorable, is that Korean?” I ask.

         “Yes,”

         “Very cool, my boyfriend’s Korean,” I lie. Jungkook isn’t my boyfriend. He’s just a guy I’ve slept with once and fallen asleep next to twice … or whatever.

         “Nice, I wonder if we know him,” Taehyung said. “What’s his last name?”

         “Jeon,” I tell them. I clock the miniscule movement in their brows, the exchanged glance, but I don’t know what it means.

         “Not too many of those, what’s his first name?” The man next to Taehyung asks.

         “Jungkook” I tell them. My eyes don’t leave their faces as they both nod, neither daring to share a glance.

         “I don’t think I know him,” Taehyung says.

         “Well, what are your names? I can ask him if maybe he knows you?” I offer. Take the bait, take the bait.

         “I’m Taehyung, this is Jimin,” He says.

         “Y/N,” I offer my hand to shake, which they each accept.

         This is my moment, “This is going to sound crazy, but do you know Lee Euna?”

         “Who?” Jimin asks.

         I scrutinize his features, no slight quiver of the upper lip, no pupils dilating, no quickened breath. “Lee Euna, she’s part of the family that owns Lee Enterprises?”

         “Oh, Lee Enterprises, I’ve heard of them, they’re brokers?” Jimin asks.

         “Traders,” Taehyung responds.

         “Candlestick makers,” I finish the rhyme, both men look at me quizzically, then laugh. “They do banking and stock trading for the top 0.01% of society, royals, billionaires, human traffickers, etc.”

         “Ah,” Jimin nods. “Not my area of expertise.”

         Agreeing, Taehyung nods, “Mine either,”

         “Same,” I add. Maisy runs up to me and begins growling at the men I’m standing with. “Johnson Maisy Lou, knock it off,”

         “Johnson Maisy Lou?” Taehyung laughs.

         “I didn’t name her,” I shrug.

         “Her?” Jimin continues laughing. He’s like, really pretty.

         “Yeah, my sister’s dog. She gives no shits when it comes to gender norms. Johnson was a bet she lost though,” I inform them. I reattach Maisy’s leash and give her a good once over. “You ready?”

         She wags her tail in response.

         “It was nice to meet you guys, maybe I’ll see you next weekend?” I smile again, friendly and kind to a flaw.

         “Yeah, bring your boyfriend, we might have some friends in common,” Jimin smiles again.

         I wave before dragging Maisy back to the trail and slowly to the car. They know Jungkook, I don’t know how, or why, but something in their reaction tells me that they are more than just friendly with him. Maybe they went to school together? Or worked together before their respective positions at the library and whatever Jimin does? That would answer few questions but makes me feel uneasy.

         When I return to my car, I’m met with a familiar sight. An envelope resting on my driver’s seat. Car locked, windows intact, it sits, waiting. My blood runs cold, chills down my spine as I stare. I swallow the bile in the back of my throat and survey my surroundings.

         “The first was a warning shot. This is your last chance. Stop. Looking.”

         I panic, glancing all around me, trying to find someone who stands out in the weekend shuffle. There’s no absurdly dressed person, no one in a weird hat or harboring a long-range camera, no one glancing at me in my sheer panic, fear pushing my fight or flight into overdrive.

         Choosing a stance somewhere between fear and power, I walk swiftly towards the coffee shop. Ordering a concoction I’ve heard Taehyung order, I ask the cashier a leading question.

         “That’ll be $3.57,” He smiles. I glance at his nametag, Robert.

         “Thanks, Robert. Can I ask you something?”

         “Of course!” He answers.

         “You see that black car?” I point towards the general direction of my vehicle. “Have you seen anyone approach it in the last hour?”

         “No, but I just started my shift twenty minutes ago,” Robert informs me.

         “Okay, thanks,” I move out of the way and watch as other customers flit through the shop, the open concept rustic café is a hot spot, known for their tea infusions and gluten free pastries, it’s a hot ticket. The line is often out the door, and everyone who works here receives massive tips. I don’t know who gives their spare change, but I’ve seen the jar completely full on more than one occasion. Tipping for leaf water is preposterous, but then again, a good cup of leaf water is hard to find. I think, I’ve never really truly looked for it.

         After giving myself 30 minutes to calm down, I head back to my car, taking the note and slipping it into an evidence bag. I drive the 15 to my sisters, knocking aggressively as I am positive Maisy is one bark away from biting me.

         “Did you have to bring her back?” C asks, opening the door.

         “I don’t want to be arrested for dog-abuse, that’s a serious crime,” I hand her Maisy’s leash, and she obediently retreats into the house, running towards her food bowl.

         “Oh, I’ll stick the ASPCA on you for sure. How was she?” C asks, stepping back to allow me into the house.

         I sigh, “Useful, did exactly what I needed her to.”

         “That might be the first time in her life she’s listened to directions,” C laughs. “Water?”

         “And probably the last, isn’t that right Johnson Maisy?” I ruffle behind her ears and take the can of Bubly from my sister.

         “How’s your little man friend?” She asks, hope in her eyes.

         “He’s not little, and he’s not a friend,” I correct her.

         “Right, right, how’s lover boy?”

         “Don’t call him that,” I squeeze my eyes closed, knowing full well where she’s headed.

         “Oh, baby, how’s baby?” She does her best Jennifer Grey impression.

         “You’re the worst. And he’s fine,”

         “Have you been seeing him regularly? What’s his name again? JK? Did his parents just really like New York Undercover? Or I’m sorry, the Killing Joke?” C laughs at her own jokes, which makes me hate her cleverness even more.

         “Jungkook, and yes you can call him JK,” I sip on the pineapple flavored sparkling H2O.

         “And?”

         “He’s great, he’s wonderful, he’s sexy and intelligent and thoughtful and kind and I could swim in his Bambi eyes forever, okay?”

         She laughs at my tone, frustration evident as I blush profusely.

         “You like him,” She sings. 

           “Too much it seems,” I roll my eyes.

         “Are the feelings mutual?”

         “He took me to breakfast, after dancing, we didn’t have sex, and then, he took me to dinner and a movie the next day, a ‘traditional date’ as he called it. It’s been a month? Not even, and I think about him constantly. I want to see him every second of everyday and I feel so sad when he’s gone. I’m literally handing him my heart to break and I think, all signs are pointing to him handing me his,” I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat radiate onto my palms. Why is this so embarrassing?

         “Are you going to take it?” C asks.

         “Haven’t I already?”

         C lets it hang I the air, my willing acceptance of heartache at the hands of this lionhearted man, my willingness to be absolutely gutted by him, and in return, his vulnerability to be tossed out like every other man who has ever dared to get close to me.

         “Maybe he’s worthy,” C offers.

         Shaking my head, “It’s not about being worthy, I don’t deserve anyone.”

         “No, no one deserves anything except basic human rights, food, shelter, education, healthcare… but maybe you’ve found a guy who is actually going to be supportive and challenging, someone who isn’t scared of your callousness and thrives in your ability to love without bounds. Maybe he’s that person for you.” Her stare is knowing, and I hate how correct she could possibly be. I hate that I’m falling so quickly, and I hate that he might be falling too. It’s easier when one person has the upper hand, when a bluff pays off with a win. But if we both fold, then are hearts become collateral, and to whom the pieces go becomes a mystery.

         “Can we please stop talking about him?” I request, the tears brimming giving way to my distress.

         C smiles softly, her knowing sisterly gaze on my tears. “Absolute. How’s the case going?”

         “Fine, I found another guy with Taehyung, they both seem to know Jungkook, but I don’t know how they know him or why they lied about it. Neither mentioned anything that was useful,” I wipe the few tears away and pick up my drink.

         “Will you keep digging?” She asks.

         “I’m not sure there’s much more to dig. Euna has her list, she knows what they did, she doesn’t want proof that they’re guilty, she just wants to know where she can find them.” I inform her.

         “That’s the business you’re in, finding people who don’t want to be found?” C clarifies. She knows better than anyone what I do. Though I function in dark allies and make backroom deals, C follows the letter of the law and works for a branch of the CIA. Doing what, I do not know, but she understands the importance of hiding, and the lengths people will go to, to remain out of sight.

         “It’s not my job to protect them, C, if I can find them, anyone can.”

         “Why does she want to find them?”

         “Revenge is my guess, why she had to come to me when she’s worth billions is beyond my understanding. She could’ve hired anyone, had a mole in the government search, literally anything other than showing up at my broken-down door,”

         C pauses, “What if they’re in witness protection? What if she was abusive?”

         “They’re not in witness, if they were, they wouldn’t use their real names or live in the same city she does. That and you would’ve found out. And, there are no records of abuse in the system, no restraining orders, nothing.”

         “Could they be hiding from her?” C questions.

         “In plain sight?” I counter.

         She laughs. “Staring Mary McCormack now streaming on Amazon Prime.”

         “I’m leaving,” I roll my eyes.

         “Just, be careful, okay?” She reaches for me, and I enter her embrace. Sister hugs always carry more weight.

         “I will be,” I say into her hair.

         “Don’t dig a hole bigger than you can fill,” She kisses my cheek gently, her lip gloss sticking to my skin.

         “That’s not a saying,” I reply as I wipe the goo from my face.

         “Don’t care. Love you,” C stares me down, her words echoing through me.

         “Love you, mean it,” I respond, and her shoulders relax.

         We haven’t always had the best relationship, the most love, the most respect. She’s anal and controlling, I’m easy going and dare I say, happy? We’ve always been opposites, she loved analytics, statistics, history. I craved action, drama, constant stimulation. We both love puzzles, though hers remain recreational and mine professional. At our core, we’re cut from the same cloth. Mannerisms mimicking the other, eyes of similar shape, looking enough like sisters to never be questioned.

         But she’s right.

         Am I digging a hole bigger than what I can fill? Has Lee Euna, Euna Lee, set me up to completely fail? Do these men want to remain in hiding, and if so, what’s the level of risk I am putting them at?

         Maybe solving the mystery of who the man was with Taehyung will guide me towards an answer.

Next: Codename Another Shot at Love Pt. 4

[jonathananubian]

Te Dralyc Kar 9 [Star Wars Fanfic]

Synopsis:

Jango isn’t quite sure how he came to adopt a blonde slave boy after a job on Tatooine went sideways, but he honestly couldn’t complain. The boy is a little genius, brimming with compassion and a willingness to learn. The only hiccup, as far as Jango is concerned, is the fact that his boy is a naturally powerful force user. Someone the jetii would want to get their hands on.

Of course- he’d just like to see them try.

[This story isn’t linear. More like a series of snapshots. At least until later chapters.]

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022666/chapters/57795934

Introducing Anakin to more of the Haat Mando’ade left Jango feeling very conflicted. A few of them still harbored a lot of anger towards him for how he had disappeared all those years ago. Thankfully most of them came to understand the horror that had been inflicted upon him and forgave his absence. Being enslaved after losing everyone he cared about had broken him. He didn’t feel like he deserved the title of Mand’alor, didn’t think he could handle the reminder of his greatest failures. Then Anakin, his bight little star, had come into his life and given him something to hold onto. None of them said it but he knew at least a few of them were thinking it. The boy had saved his life and what remained of his sanity. Sitting down to a large meeting with the heads of various clans he was surprised just how many people still believed in Jaster’s ideals, and how many more had joined up after Kryze and Vizla had come into power. While Jango certainly, and obviously, hated Vizla he had almost as much disdain for Kryze and her tyrannical ways. The Mand’alor could call upon the warriors of Mandalore and expect them to come when called to action. But the Mand’alor also understood that there were other walks of life that needed to be honored as well. Farming, crafting, raising children, all of that was just as important and honorable as being a warrior. Kryze didn’t get it. She and her New Mandalorians thought that the Resol’nare had no room for those who did not fight as a way of life. Because she didn’t understand she forced her own ‘ideals’ on the people, subjugating those who just wanted to continue living as their forefathers had for generations.

A foolish child throwing a tantrum because not everything was going her way. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was destroying his people’s heritage he might have pitied her. Her father had been a good man, honorable, and she was disrespecting everything he stood for in her search of a mythical ‘peace’ that didn’t, and would never, exist. “Jango, you’re being a stubborn bastard about this.” Dennan of Clan Haarok hissed, slamming his fist into the top of the table. “Just accept the position and let us move on to other matters.” Currently he and his son found themselves as guests of what remained of House Mereel. Now that Jango had returned everyone was more or less intent on thrusting him into the position of Clan Head immediately. “Clan Mereel is gone. Everyone who had any claim to the name is dead.” Except, technically, himself. As the adopted son of Jaster he could always take the man’s last name for himself. But in doing so it would be erasing a part of his own history, part of what made him who he was. Jaster had never asked him to change his name and never expected it of him. "Jango... he made you his heir. You don't have to take his name, everyone here knows you are the rightful head of Clan Mereel. Don't dismiss this out of hand, Jaster deserved more than that." Some around the table flinched, glancing between Shiona and himself. Originally she had been one of Jaster's lieutenants, someone he could trust to get shit done. Somehow, even now, she still held onto the authority that had been placed into her capable hands. He wanted to argue, to curse them for bringing him there, but he knew it wasn't their fault. Jango's failures were his own. "Fine." Standing he placed a fist over his chest. "I am Jango Fett, Leader of House Mereel, son and heir, now Head, of Clan Mereel. I swear to hold my position with honor, to lead you in fairness, and to enact swift vengeance against anyone who dares to cross us." He gave Shiona a look but she just beamed at him. Tensions in the room began to lessen as he sat back down. Now that everyone knew where they stood, where Jango was in the hierarchy, they felt more inclined to work with one another. "One last matter of House business." Jervun of Clan Menzai stated, calling everyone's attention to him. "Alor, will your son be the heir to the Clan? Or the heir to both?" Jango felt as if someone had shoved electricity down his spine, it was an uncomfortable feeling. The thought of Anakin being the heir to a clan and house that had already been through so much hardship made him clench his hands. He didn't want to hand over the curse that seemed to plague him his entire life. But... Anakin had seen himself as Mand'alor. Or at the very least wielding the Darksaber. If that vision of the future was to come about he would need as much advantage as possible. "I do. But not only that." He had the entire room's attention, it was like old times. "I name Anakin Fett as heir to the title of Mand'alor." There were gasps from more than one mouth and he gave them all a humorless grin. "Jango, he's only seven! You're going to paint a target on that child's back!" Tavi of Clan Ysom practically yelled from down the table. "Anakin is Ka'runi, powerful enough that a passing jetii immediately noticed and tried to talk to him." If he hadn't been in the middle of Dex's diner he might have killed the bastard. Just in case he decided to tell the other jetii about Anakin. "His appointment as my chosen heir to the position of Mand'alor doesn't need to leave this room." He looked every sentient in the eyes, or in some cases the visor of their helmet. "I hope you know what you're doing, Alor." Tavi muttered, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. "I have some idea." Laying his arms over his legs he leaned forward. "Tell me everything I missed. We need to start planning." The look of relief and hope on their faces made him want to flinch. Jango still wasn't sure if he could be the leader they needed but by the stars he was going to try his damnedest to make things right. [Anakin] Life since they'd come to Manda'yaim was really interesting. His dad still made him practice hand to hand, how to shoot a blaster, and how to make traps. But now he had an hours worth of training a day with a man named Wad'e. When he'd first shown up in his purple armor Anakin had been a bit nervous, he was a very quiet man. But at his dad's prompting the man had brought out a pair of beskad and Anakin's apprehension had fallen away. He got to learn how to fight with a sword! It was a lot of hard work, just like all hit other practice, but it became one of the most fun parts of his day. Even more than his language lessons with Runa, who seemed to know every language ever. Even though he and his dad would return to the same place to sleep at night Anakin began to notice how busy everyone was around him. How his dad barely had any time to do anything besides meditate with him during the day. He knew that his dad had an important new job now, one that needed a lot of planning, but he couldn't help feeling ignored. "Hey, kid... you okay? You're distracted." Blinking up at Wad'e he felt his face flush in embarrassment. The man had been trying to show him a new strike and he had been lost in his own head again. "N'eparavu takisit, Adat'juri Tay'haai." 'I'm sorry, Teacher Tay'haai.' He said politely with a small bow. The man watched him through his dark visor, Anakin could feel the man's eyes scrutinizing him. "It's alright ner hibir." 'My student.' Crounching down he reached over, almost hesitantly, and put a hand on Anakin's head. "But if something's wrong you can talk to me." Anakin bit his lip and looked down, a bad habit from his life before. "...do you think buir's work will be done soon?" The man stiffened for a moment and a sense of uncertainty filled the air between them. Anakin let out a sigh, that was probably a yes. The man ruffled his hair, making the blonde yelp in surprise. "Your buir is a very important man. Because he's important there are a lot of people who want to speak with him right now." Pulling his hand away the man stood back up and lifted his sword once more. "It doesn't mean he loves you less, or that you're not important to him." There was a faint feeling of strong conviction and respect for his dad that made Anakin feel less anxious. "When he's finished his work why don't you just ask him for some of his time? I'm sure he'll give it to you if he knows you want it." Anakin smiled. "Thanks Adat'juri." The man gave him a single nod and slid into the stance he had been in the middle of teaching. "Now, make sure not to turn your foot outward, you'll want to-" Anakin followed his movements, mind focused on the lesson. Later that evening, after dinner, he sat with his dad for meditation. No matter how hard he'd worked that day Jango always made time to sit down and do their daily meditation. It was nice, to be able to just sit and feel his father's presence so close to him. It made him feel safe and focused. "Are you drifting, An'ika?" Opening his eyes he smiled sheepishly. Jango gave him a look somewhere between fondness and consternation. "You've been really distracted today. Me'vaar?" ‘You okay?’ "Buir... I..." Anakin looked down at his lap, feeling almost selfish for what he wanted to ask. "Do you... think we could go out and see the city a bit? Or... maybe play a game?" His buir watched him quietly for a moment then let out a long sigh. Anakin tried not to chew on his lips again, Shiona said it was bad for him. "An'ika, c'mere." Getting up he walked to his father and smiled when he was pulled into a big hug. "I'm sorry I've been so busy lately. It's not your fault and I haven't forgotten about you, alright? We can go out tomorrow for lunch at the Baat." After a moment his dad pulled away slightly. "I... was planning on introducing you to more people soon. They've been asking about you." "Why?" His buir rubbed the back of his neck. "Because they... well they're our family." Anakin's eyes went wide. He had more family? "Like cousins and stuff?" Jango chuckled. "Something like that. I'm sure if you ask them nicely they can tell you stories about your ba'buir, Jaster, or even stories of me as an adiik." Anakin beamed. "After lunch tomorrow?" His dad smiled. "It's a promise."

[thatwasthenightthingschanged]

"In retrospect, you could say I was beginning to question things.

But then it was 2018, and a couple of things happened. First, Love, Simon came out in March, which was one of the most electrifying, unforgettable, truly extraordinary experiences of my life. But having your book adapted to a film brings a lot of notoriety and attention, especially online, and it’s not always the fun kind. Unsurprisingly, there was quite a bit of discourse about my identity — how could there not be? Love, Simon was the first gay teen rom com to be released widely by a major film studio, and it was based on a book written by an allocishet woman. Yes, the film’s director was openly gay. No, not everyone cared (frankly, a lot of people still don’t know Love, Simon was based on a book). But in many online spaces, my straightness was a springboard for some — legitimately important — conversations about representation, authenticity, and ownership of stories. And for some people, my straightness was enough to boycott the film entirely.

Then Leah on the Offbeat came out about a month later, and the discourse exploded all over again. There were thinkpieces based on the premise that I, a straight woman, clearly knew nothing about being a bi girl. There were tweets and threads and blog posts, and just about every single one I came across mentioned my straightness. And when Leah debuted on the NYT list, authors I admired and respected tweeted their disappointment that this “first” had been taken by a straight woman. Of course, Leah wasn’t the first f/f YA book to hit the New York Times list. And maybe people were wrong about the other stuff too. But the attention and scrutiny were so overwhelming, and it all hurt so badly, I slammed the lid down on that box and forgot I’d ever cracked it open.

At least I didn’t remember I remembered.

I deleted the sexuality labels from my website. I declined to answer certain questions in interviews. I’d get quietly, passionately indignant when people made assumptions about other authors’ gender identities and sexualities. And I’d feel uncomfortable, anxious, almost sick with nerves every time they discussed mine.

And holy shit, did people discuss. To me, it felt like there was never a break in the discourse, and it was often searingly personal. I was frequently mentioned by name, held up again and again as the quintessential example of allocishet inauthenticity. I was a straight woman writing shitty queer books for the straights, profiting off of communities I had no connection to.

Because the thing is, I called myself straight in a bunch of early interviews.

But labels change sometimes. That’s what everyone always says, right? It’s okay if you’re not out. It’s okay if you’re not ready. It’s okay if you don’t fully understand your identity yet. There’s no time limit, no age limit, no one right way to be queer.

And yet a whole lot of these very same people seemed to know with absolute certainty that I was allocishet. And the less certain I was, the more emphatically strangers felt the need to declare it. Apparently it was obvious from my writing. Simon’s fine, but it was clearly written by a het. You can just tell. Her books aren’t really for queer people.

You know what’s a mindfuck? Questioning your sexual identity in your thirties when every self-appointed literary expert on Twitter has to share their hot take on the matter. Imagine hundreds of people claiming to know every nuance of your sexuality just from reading your novels. Imagine trying to make space for your own uncertainty. Imagine if you had a Greek chorus of internet strangers propping up your imposter syndrome at every stage of the process.

The thing is, I really do believe in the value of critically discussing books, particularly when it comes to issues of representation. And I believe in the vital importance of Ownvoices stories. Most of the identities represented in my books are Ownvoices. But I don’t think we, as a community, have ever given these discussions the care and nuance they deserve.

Consider the origin of the Ownvoices hashtag. It was created in 2015 by author Corinne Duyvis, with the purpose of highlighting stories written by authors who share the same marginalized identities as their characters. But Corinne has always emphasized caution when it comes to using Ownvoices to determine which authors can tell which stories. And she’s been incredibly clear and emphatic about not weaponizing the term to pressure authors to disclose private aspects of their identities.

So why do we keep doing this? Why do we, again and again, cross the line between critiquing books and making assumptions about author identities? How are we so aware of invisible marginalization as a hypothetical concept, but so utterly incapable of making space for it in our community?

Let me be perfectly clear: this isn’t how I wanted to come out. This doesn’t feel good or empowering, or even particularly safe. Honestly, I’m doing this because I’ve been scrutinized, subtweeted, mocked, lectured, and invalidated just about every single day for years, and I’m exhausted. And if you think I’m the only closeted or semi-closeted queer author feeling this pressure, you haven’t been paying attention.

And I’m one of the lucky ones! I’m a financially independent adult. I can’t be disowned. I come from a liberal family, I have an enormous network of queer friends and acquaintances, and my livelihood isn’t even remotely at risk. I’m hugely privileged in more ways than I can count. And this was still brutally hard for me. I can’t even imagine what it’s like for other closeted writers, and how unwelcome they must feel in this community.

Even as I write this, I’m bracing for the inevitable discourse — I could draft the twitter threads myself if I wanted to. But I’d rather just make a few things really clear. First, this isn’t an attempt to neutralize criticism of my books, and you’re certainly entitled to any reactions you might have had to their content. Second, I’m not asking you to validate my decision to write Simon (or What If It’s Us, or mlm books in general).

But if I can ask for something, it’s this: will you sit for a minute with the discomfort of knowing you may have been wrong about me? And if your immediate impulse is to scrutinize my personal life, my marriage, or my romantic history, can you try to check yourself?

Or how about this: can we all be a bit more careful when we engage in queer Ownvoices discourse? Can we remember that our carelessness in these discussions has caused real harm? And that the people we’re hurting rarely have my degree of privilege or industry power? Can we make space for those of us who are still discovering ourselves? Can we be a little more compassionate? Can we make this a little less awful for the next person?

Can you tell I’m angry? Because I’m angry.

But I’m grateful, too, for those of you who understood the hidden (and not-so-hidden) threads of my books before I did. I’m grateful for the writer whose vulnerability made all of this finally click into place for me. And the ones who put their hearts on the line to hold space for people like me. And the ones who made me feel like I was allowed to care about this. And, of course, I’m grateful for the books. Some of you have no idea how much your words have helped me find mine.

Anyway, all of this is to say: I’m bi. Sorry it took me so long to get here. But then again, at least the little red coming out book I needed was already on my shelf (in about thirty different languages).

I think I finally know why I wrote it."

author Becky Albertalli ("Love, Simon", "Leah On The Offbeat") on her coming out process and the harsh criticism she had to face for he books (whole article here)

I think this perfectly illustrates why we, as a community, should stop assuming other people's identity

[ill-will-editions]

A LETTER TO FRIENDS OF THE DESERT - Marcello Tarì 

First published in Qui e Ora, March 20, 2020. 

My dear friends,

There are few things in life more comforting at a time like this than writing letters to your dearest friends. I hope this one finds you as healthy and beautiful as I carry you within me. Some of us are living with great suffering these days, but friendship - that is, being as close as possible to one another - makes it possible for us to share and therefore diminish this suffering if we wish. This is simply because, by virtue of friendship, we are effortlessly led to live with each others' lives. In this cloister which has taken us in, we must remain open as never before to the wind of friendship which, as we know, is capable of blowing beyond any distance.

As you may have noticed, we have found ourselves, for a few days or weeks depending on our respective countries, reduced to a quarantine in a time which, in a disturbing coincidence, is also that of Lent, a time traditionally devoted to introspection, to renunciation, and perhaps in the end to reconciliation. As anyone who knows me well can attest, I have always thought that there is no such thing as “chance”, and that “chance” was only a way of speaking to reassure ourselves, a superstition with which we force ourselves to believe that what happens, and the way it happens, has no meaning for us. So I thought this coincidence to be part of the signs of the times that we are called to interpret.

In the Gospels it is told that during this time Jesus was "driven" by the Spirit into the desert for forty days, and that there, in this period of asceticism, he suffered the temptations of the devil.

This is a topos that can be found in several stories of the Old Testament, beginning of course with the adventurous journey of the Jewish people to flee persecution. Different stories, but all signs that the desert is a "trial" [prova]. Of course, the life of each of us has passed through desert periods. It does not always go well, and we bear the scars. At least, that has been my experience. But those times when we did come out of it stronger are the ones that, when you think about it, allow us to still be alive. The exceptional thing is that sometimes, as today, the test is at once individual and collective, to the point of involving entire peoples, if not all of humanity.

We who have always scrutinized the inexorable flow of history, looking for the signs of the event that would interrupt it, therefore cannot stand still in the face of what is happening. An extraordinary event, which makes us realize that we don't have enough words to describe it. The desert is also the absence of words, speeches, repetitive and pleasant sounds. Moreover, in Hebrew, the term used for "word", dabar, and that for "desert", midbar, have the same root: from this, we can assume that it is precisely because the desert is a place deprived of words that it is most conducive to the revelation of the Word as an event. The first thing to do, then, is to listen, to tidy up inside oneself enough to be able to welcome the event. But to listen to what, exactly? In an interview with a nun I recently read, she says that obedience is to be understood in its etymological sense, as ob-audire, "to listen before, in front of". "Listening to reality" is the true meaning of obedience, she concluded in her cloister. I believe it is an exercise of this kind that the period calls for.

In the desert there are no streets, no paths that have already been traced out and need only to be followed. It is the task of those who cross it to orient themselves and find their own way out. There are no shops, there are no sources of water, there are no plants. Everything appears motionless because in the desert there is no production. There are no bars, and there are no social centers. There is nothing that we would imagine there to be in a place considered “livable”. We can say in the end that there is nothing human, and that is why in the book of Deuteronomy it is said that in the desert there is a screaming loneliness. I know very well that a great part of this time we are living through seems to be made essentially of this screaming and dehumanization, and I understand the distrust and horror in which we are sometimes captured and led to despair. The vulgarity of so much of the "music" that falls in the early evening from Italy’s balconies these days does not manage to cover this scream - the scream covers everything. In fact, after the euphoria of the first days, this ritual is already disappearing: many understand that it doesn't quite sound right. Changing the scream into a song depends on our sensitivity, our tuning to the event. No, we must not twist in despair or freeze in denial. There are many ways of despairing and denying, and often, in the turmoil of which they are made and which they convey, they seem to be opposites. Let’s not be fooled. Let us truly listen to the song of reality.

One must think of how, in those old books, it is said that the Garden of Eden was the first victory over the desert chaos. That it was in fact planted in the center of where there was nothing, neither bushes nor grass, neither river nor anything else. It has indeed remained unforgettable, that garden, as a promise of the happiness to which we aspire: a place of abundance where there is neither work nor exploitation, where everything is in balance with everything. In their best moments, people thought this to be the only existence worth living. Victory in and over the desert means nothing more than access to the possibility of a life that is more true, rich, happy, and therefore more free.

In this precise moment, each one of us lives their own trial [prova], and it is not easy to distinguish between the one endured by the body and the one endured by the spirit, as we usually tend to do. Perhaps this is the occasion, not another tomorrow or who knows when, to reunite what we are usually inclined to consider divided. You know it better than I: our civilization has been, from top to bottom, the civilization of division. Let us not allow it today to deepen this schism again and again.

The desert is the place of the krisis, in the original meaning of this ancient Greek word that continues to haunt us: choice and decision. Don’t you think, then, my friends, that today we are all “driven” to exactly that place? Has not the imperative moment of decision come for all of us?

Don't you think that it is a decision that we should make together, beginning from ourselves, rather than each one for themselves without taking into account the others?

The desert I speak of is the place of trial not because it is an empty space, but because it is devoid of all those things that artificially decorate existences, everything that facilitates and flatters them. That is, it is devoid of the distractions that prevent each of us, every day, from contemplating our own lives with clarity. The desert is therefore the place that allows one to meditate concretely on one’s own life in the world, starting from a place outside the world, in the truest sense. Free of the superfluous, of all that we believed was necessary but we now know is not, because it never was. Conversely, the desert makes us feel the desire for everything that is truly missing from our lives. Along the path that we painfully struggle to open up within it, we then experience the absence of community, of justice, of gratuity, and of true health. Of course, we will also feel the absence of that person we have excluded from our intimacy without fully understanding why, or of the person who has excluded us but nevertheless, mysteriously, we continue to love. A thirst for love? It must be said, yes, in every possible sense. One of you, a long time ago, told me that it was not possible and didn't make sense to do anything together if we didn’t at least want to do each other some good. Not the abstract good of ideology, but the bodily or spiritual good that one feels in contact. Of course, it has not always been easy to understand what this good consists of, and often instead of good, we have done harm to ourselves. In fact, the few beings that permanently inhabit the desert are always dangerous: hyenas and demons. They say of Jesus, however, that at the end of his trial, even the beasts stood by him like lambs (Eden!). I have the impression, the certainty, that the moment we touch this reality and obey it, we will indeed “be everything”.

That is why the desert is the place where, through trials and meditation, the strong spirit of a new beginning is forged in a lasting manner. Today, we have the possibility of not repeating a ritual as if it were an ultimately insignificant parenthesis for us and for the world - of tired and useless rituals, let me tell you, we are great experts - but of definitively tearing the veil of History that holds us captive to an evil dream. To go beyond, as an old sage has often told us. At this moment, this means going far beyond the pandemic. It means going on, all together, to another plane of existence.

Tempered by the desert, with the spiritual strength acquired through hardship and the victorious battle with demons, we will be able to return to the world accompanied by a power that is not of this world. A power that now knows, as Jesus told the demon who first tempted him, that one does not live on bread alone, but with and through the Word, which is more material than matter. Christ is subjected to everyday temptations—possession, power, manipulation—matter which is less than matter. The same temptations we have always struggled against — that’s the reason we became friends, remember?

It is this Word which works on us these days, each in their place, each in their cloister, each in their desert, each with a different struggle [fatica]. Places that may be those of a regained intimacy, but which, taken all together, create a single enormous desert that is like a gigantic encounter with reality. Because the desert I am talking about is not the empty streets of the metropolis, which are sad and empty even when they are full and everything flows quickly and makes us sick, but the wild space that exposes us to the Word and within which we fight one by one against temptations. I myself am familiar with many of the temptations I imagine you are fighting these days, for they have also been mine in the past, and partly still are. You know what I mean. One of Jesus’ decisive teachings in the desert, however, maintains that you are not to engage in dialogue with the devil, never, because once you have agreed to do so, no matter how clever you think you are, you remain his prisoner: his speech, his rhetoric, his art of seduction are only so many barriers that close in upon you. How many times have we watched those barriers drive old friends away from us forever?

Day after day, our dwellings are transformed into fragments of a desert wasteland, with its wild animals, its deep, incomparably habitable silence, and its presences, which usually we do not perceive, too overwhelmed by a myriad of other, largely useless things. The challenge is to recognize the right presence, the good one, the one that heals, and to chase away the bad one, the one that makes you sick, that lies to make you lie, that makes you kneel before it in exchange for more power, more things, more worldliness, more recognition, more, more, more... The desert shows us the possible and the impossible.

In fact, the desert was the place reached by the first monachoi, the "solitaries", those who left an unjust, decadent empire. First they left in small numbers, then month after month, year after year, they became hundreds and thousands and thus began to live together, group by group, in cenobia, a word that means nothing other than what we too have always sought: a place of life in common. Even then, as now, the desert was therefore a test that affected both individuals and the community. Communities formed around the cenobies, and finally cities, which received their spiritual strength from the cenobies. From these solitary people who managed to see, from their retreat into the desert, from this community where everything was in common, a new civilization was born. The civilization that later got lost in the centuries because it lost contact with its truth and, with the passage of time, knelt ever more before the demons of capitalism, the same civilization which is now flickering out. The problem is that it wants to take us with it, to its hell.

This civilization does not end because of the coronavirus. I think it is clear to everyone that it is only an epiphenomenon. This civilization ends because of its arrogance, its insatiable greed, its injustice, because of its having turned the world into a gigantic morbid factory. What else but a demon of total destruction could have been born from a civilization that erected money as the absolute idol, and power as the ultimate end of all things and all existence?

Once we are out of the "emergency" and out of our desert, for we must always consider dwelling within it as only transitory, we must not allow it to be only a parenthesis, full of suffering and death or even of discoveries and memorable moments, to be followed by a return to the normality of before. For it is precisely this normality that has brought us to the point where we are and which can no longer continue except by deepening the destruction. This normality also includes the normality of our earlier way of life, or rather, our ways of surviving and deluding ourselves. I see that many of us are desperately seeking to reaffirm our own normality. This is not good. In all friendship: it is not worth it.

But we must also pay attention to the normality afterwards, which will be presented to us as the new necessity, made up of prohibitions, lack of freedom and renewed selfishness, all for our own good. Or what improvised prophets will proclaim to be the fabric of the new world, identical to the one before but with different rulers.

We must instead repeat the gesture of separation of the first monachoi: to secede from the decadent civilization of destruction, to build our cenobies, our communes. I have been thinking a lot lately about why we haven’t done it yet, why we haven’t been able to do it, what has prevented us from trying again, and I haven’t been able to give myself any satisfactory answers. Some of you will probably be able to suggest one. I may be starting to glimpse a few that I’ve yet to consider. In any case, I believe this time, in which we have been "pushed" by the Spirit, deserves a true answer. From us. One that could come from the silence we inhabit, the solitude we aim at, the evil we struggle against. What will we do, what will we see, when we leave the desert?

Once out of the desert, the Nazarene announced that the Kingdom was near. I have always interpreted this nearness not in the temporal sense of a not-too-distant future, which no one has ever been able to calculate, but as something we have, or something that is next to us, as is said of a neighbor. Regarding this closeness, I believe we don't need many more words to understand each other.

I send you my love, and I hope to hear from you soon,

Yours,

Marcello

Translated by Keelan O’Sullivan.

[a-bugz-life]

Fuckin’ Amphibians || Anita & Nicodemus

TIMING: A few days ago. PARTIES: @professoranieves and @bountybossier SUMMARY: Anita and Nic are both out in the forest when they run across some Ballogbogs. Things get a bit psychedelic. 

Anita had lived in White Crest for almost five years now. When she first arrived, she knew of a handful of supernatural beings, but her worldview expanded exponentially even within the first few months of living here. It didn’t hurt that she spent a lot of her time in the woods, mostly for the bugs partially for the isolation. But even in her years of experience, she apparently still had more to learn. In her exploring, she found herself near a small pond out in the forest. Perfect place for some interesting breeds of bugs. But then she saw them, very large and very gross looking toads. She didn’t think much of it, toads love bugs too. But as she drew closer to the pond she noticed one of the toads puff up, and then shoot something at her. “Shit, shit…” She groaned, as she tried to run before it hit her. But she wasn’t so successful. Initially she didn’t feel much of anything, and thought for a second maybe she was immune to whatever this was. But then the leaves on the trees began turning pink? And the ground began to slowly melt under her feet? No, something wasn’t quite right.

The place farthest away from the lake was the woods on damn near the other side of town. In between trying to figure out any thing that might help deal with the fucking squid, Nicodemus went about business as usual. Took up a job and saw it to completion. Traditionally, he wasn’t picky about jobs that demanded a bounty dead or alive. He took whichever. But lately, he wasn’t in the mind for killing. Just a catch and release to the shadow paying him. The task of catching a handful of fatflitters was just mundane enough that he didn’t expect to be bothered too much. The hunter tapped his fingers against his thumb as he walked, a small perforated cage in his other hand. The things were quick and liked their fatty tissue, so it was just a matter of finding the right tracks of a larger creature and hoping the quick shits were on it. The croak of toads sounded loudly to his left and he briefly looked over in that direction. Over the sound of toads, a voice. A voice that sounded a hell of a lot more bothered than he did. The hunter considered just keeping on the way he was and even as he did, he was already heading over to the noise. As he drew closer and his night vision made out the shape of a person, he looked over at the pond. Oh hell. Fucking ballybogs. They didn’t like when anyone got too close to their little domains. And it looked like the stranger had found that out. He cleared his throat to try and get her attention. “You, uh, you good?”

For a split second Anita thought she saw a person approaching, but it quickly became clear to her that this was no person, but rather a very tall and mobile ice cream cone. Interesting. It was rocky road, which wasn’t her favorite flavor. No pun intended but she really wasn’t a fan of nuts. But then the strangest thing happened, the ice cream spoke to her? No that couldn’t be. She slowly got closer to it, trying to figure out if maybe someone was just standing behind it? But no, just one singular cone of ice. “You can talk?” She asked, the disbelief thick in her voice. She sat down on the ground in front of the ice cream and dropped her head into her hands. “This ice cream cannot talk to me. This ice cream cannot talk to me.” She whispered, then rubbed her eyes and looked back up. “Fuck.” It was still an ice cream cone.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t really seeing him. Nicodemus squinted. Ballybogs made homes out of the swamps he grew up in and he had seen people when they got hit by their shit. Woodstock had nothing on what ballybog crap could do to a person. Once, a few years ago, not even he had escaped it and he was stuck trying to hop into the Mystery Machine that had just been a hollow log. The shame of that still haunted him sometimes. Fucking Scrappy Doo. “Yeah, I can talk,” he answered with a sigh. Damn it. He just wanted to find some damn fatflitters. Not this mess. When she sat down, he stepped back and put a hand on his hip. Oh hell. “This, uh, ice cream is fuckin’ talking to you. That’s me, one big damn waffle cone.” Alright, so she was seeing him as an ice cream cone. Maybe she wouldn’t feel like attacking him. He glanced down at her. “And I might be able to waffle us the fuck outta here.”

Anita was shocked when the guy? Yeah, sounded like a guy, seemed to respond to her delusions … and knew that he was a waffle cone? Anita stood up, eyeing the frosty treat with delicate suspicion. But it was almost as though the moment that he acknowledged that he was in fact a waffle cone, things began to shift. Anita began to hear odd voices coming from all around her in the forest. They weren’t speaking any language she understood, but something told her they were not nice voices. Suddenly, the nice ice cream cone began to melt, causing large puddles of melted chocolate ice cream. “Oh no.. oh my god… here let me help.” Anita tried to scoop up the puddles of ice cream and put it all back into the cone. “We can’t get out of here until I fix you… I can’t just leave you here for them to get you.”

Her eyes, large and confused, were directly on him and Nicodemus couldn’t help but feel a little scrutinized. Waffle cone or not. Jesus, he was starting to refer to himself as a waffle cone. Maybe he had been hit too. When she started to try and put dead leaves, plus bits of grass on him, he decidedly was not feeling like a waffle cone. “Alright, no need to go and do that,” he asserted as he took a step back. “Think you’re the one needin’ help here.” Surely someone else would come along and help. People in town had a habit of running headlong into shit every day. As he waited for a beat, a ballybog croak answered him. Fuck. He was the person that had run headlong into shit. And she had too. “Let’s get the hell on outta here, huh? I think somethin’ nearby is causin’ me to--fuckin’ Christ--melt my ice creamy bits all over the place.” He winced and shook his head. He was a hunter, for fucks sake. With a reserved expression, he offered a weathered hand. “Name’s Nic, alright? Let’s get on away from the fuckin’ acid trip frogs.”

Anita had been ignoring his claim that he didn’t need help getting all of the ice cream back into his cone, largely because that was just insane? Why wouldn’t a giant cone of ice cream want all of it’s contents securely inside of itself before running off? But then he finally offered a real reason. He was melting because of something nearby! Of course! Quickly, she stood up and stopped scooping up the ice cream melted in giant sticky puddles on the ground around them. Anita reached out to take the cone’s hand, finding it a bit odd that he had hands to begin with. “Nic the Ice Cream Man.” She repeated, clearly making up those last three words herself. His comment about frogs threw her for a loop. She had heard stories about supernatural frogs. As she was just about to open her mouth and say something, she saw all of the ice cream quickly melt away from Nic and the cone break off into a million tiny pieces. That’s when she realized that he really wasn’t an ice cream man… he had been a giant toad in disguise all along. She let out a soft scream, then quickly pulled her hand away from him. “You! You’re the acid trip frog!” Without paying much attention to where she was going, she began to slowly back away from him.

Nicodemus breathed in sharply through his nose, thankful as hell that she had stopped trying to help get his ice cream back together. Jesus, he was already in too deep with the ice cream bit. It was too much and he can feel a nerve pulsing somewhere near his temple. He shook her hand a bit stiffly. “Just, uh, Nic works,” he said. “The...Ice Cream Man is my father?” Whoever the hell that was. He had never met the poor bastard. And just when it had all been going so well, she looked at him like he was coming apart at the seams. Hell, he just might have been. Ballybogs spat serious shit and she had been hit with it. His hand clenched by his side before it came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. She was backpedaling towards the ballybogs again and he could see the damn things puffing up. He moved toward her and attempted to act as a buffer between. Like a dumbass would. “No. Nope, I’m not the acid trip fr--Oh fuck.” The ballybogs spat and Nicodemus blocked his hand with his face. He blinked twice, squeezed them shut, then opened his eyes to see his hands melting. His ice creamy hands with weirdly frog-like fingers but hey, he had been born with those. He stared at them for what felt like a century. “I...I think I am the ice cream frog,” he said as he looked at her. “And we gotta get out of my fuckin’ swamp.”

As the giant ice cream began to move towards Anita, she began to panic. How was she going to get out of here? She didn’t even know where here was anymore. Had she hiked here? Was her car nearby? Could she even drive like this? Unlikely. She heard a faint noise from beside her and while it took her a moment to place it, she eventually recognized it. Amphibians. And this ice cream frog was likely their king. Of course the dumb fucking amphibians still had a monarcy system. Reptiles had evolved beyond that need of hierarchy. “If you’re the ice cream frog… can’t you just make them stop! They’ll listen to you. Amphibians are really dumb.”

“Reckon they want us to move away from the party we weren’t invited to,” Nicodemus said as if it were obvious and it was. He could understand them. He splayed his hands out to his side, ice cream and all, in a sign of submission. They could respect that. “Partners. Fellas. We’re just gonna hit the, uh, old dusty trail now as it were. Didn’t mean to bother you fine folks this evenin’.” He made a sound as close to a frog as he could before he turned on his heel and took to walking away. He turned his head toward the stranger and spoke in a stage whisper. “They might not be bright but they like bein’ respected. Let’s just go on elsewhere.”

Anita watched the frog’s leader try to talk them down, finding the level of kindness he was showing them to be more than a bit annoying. In fact she might have rolled her eyes at his big performance, or maybe she just thought about rolling her eyes and actually didn’t move at all? It was really hard to tell. So she tried again, feeling pretty confident that she did this time roll her eyes and not just roll her head around in a circular motion. “Of course they’re not bright,” Anita quickly replied, not bothering to follow suit and speak in a whisper. “Why would I want to go anywhere with you? You’re like their leader or something stupid.” Despite her resistance, Anita followed this strange somewhat suave smooth-speaking ice cream man. At least wherever he was going was away from here, and away from those fucking frogs.

[efrmellifer]

Célèbre

“You know, Etien, I still cannot believe you agreed to this, when it feels as though you only just returned from your year-long sojourn.”

“I’ve never been to a proper Ishgardian gala,” she replied, meeting Aymeric’s eyes in the mirror with a smile. “Well, I suppose excepting our wedding reception. So this would only be my second one.”

Aymeric laughed softly. “Then it would stand to reason that we had better make it special, hmm?”

“What do you mean?”

He settled his hands on her shoulders, his palms warm on her skin even after she’d soaked in hot water. “What did you plan to wear?”

“The dress from Starlight,” she replied, turning to look at him. “Did you have something different in mind?”

“I did,” he admitted. He stepped to his armoire, aware of Etien’s gaze on him, and peeled back a layer of linen over a garment hung there.

“Oh,” Etien breathed, only just audible where she sat. “My goodness.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it. Ye gods, how long has this been here? How did I never find it?”

“Well, you aren’t prone to snooping, so that would explain it, I think.”

Etien giggled. “Fair enough. Can I put it on?”

“You may, though you might require some assistance, as it does lace up the back.”

“I could lace it up myself, I’m sure.”

“Let me help you? Please, Etien. I missed getting to do these simple things for you that one settles into in the everyday. We… have never really had an ‘everyday,’ have we?”

She exhaled sharply but quietly through her nose, rising from where she was seated before the mirror. “No, we haven’t. What was the longest we had? A fortnight? A moon?”

“Long enough to form habits to miss when it was over.” Aymeric sighed, handing the dress to Etien so she could get into it and do up the busks.

“That is the size of it.”

He watched her start at the bottom and work her way up, the boning conforming to her body as the dress took its proper form around her.

“Wow, it looks like the night—Aymeric.”

“Yes?”

She looked up at him, teeth glinting as a sly smile spread over her lips. “The night sky?”

He returned the smile, glad his thinking had been understandable to her. “After drawing the fabric of night across Norvrandt, I only thought it fair that you drape it over your body to conclude. It looks quite lovely.”

She looked down, examining the dress now that it was on her, considering the flecks of shimmering silver, stars in a bed of deep blue. The crystals accentuating her bust served much the same purpose, though despite their glint, they were more like clouds on the horizon.

She nodded in approval, stepping closer to Aymeric again and turning, offering the loose lacing to him.

“You’ll let me know the second it’s too tight, yes?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you can crush me more than the weight of—all right, ease up a little.”

With a little chuckle, he slackened the laces. “Better?”

“A little tighter, please.”

“Remember, you will want to dance.”

“Oh, will I?” She gave him an easy, amused smile. “I know. I just like the pressure that firm lacing brings. It feels more secure.”

Aymeric tugged the laces, holding them and slowly pulling them until Etien said with a nod, “Perfect.”

He tied the laces into a bow, commenting, “Not to mention, the guest of honor has to be resplendent.”

“Guest of honor?” Etien crinkled her nose slightly, striding across the room to grab her sapphire earrings.

“Indeed. Let me see what Estinien’s invitation to this event said.”

Etien paused in slipping the earring into her piercing. “Why do you have Estinien’s invitation?”

Without looking up, Aymeric answered. “He brought it here to ask me what I knew about this, and I had to tell him, as shockingly little as he did. But, this is how it reads. You are cordially invited to the Fortemps residence to join the family in celebrating the return of Etien Mellifer de Borel, champion of Ishgard and sister to Lord Artoirel, Count de Fortemps. Guests are also encouraged to offer their congratulations to her and her husband Ser Aymeric as they celebrate their first year of marriage.”

“Well, it’s been two, hasn’t it?” she asked, squinting to help herself remember as she scrutinized herself in the mirror.

“Only the Fury knows that, my dearest.”

A wistful look came over her. “Was it really a year ago?”

“It was. Though it feels longer when you recall that we spent a fortnight in the Black Shroud and we were called back to Ala Mhigo nearly as soon as our feet had touched the stones of the airship landing again.”

“Oh, right, and it was so cold when we got back.”

“A misfortune of the changing seasons.”

Etien responded in the affirmative with only a soft “Mm” in the back of her throat. The seasons. It felt like she hadn’t experienced a season in years. That was what had thrown her internal clock off the mark for so long after she’d started adventuring outside the greater Twelveswood.

Eventually, the systems of her body had adjusted to the new normal of traveling to and fro between wildly differing climes and locations, and she’d been learning to deal with that in its time, as well. And it was certainly better to do so here at home, where there was no gritting her teeth and pressing forward despite the sensations low in her belly, the flick of her tail a beckoning flag to anyone who could interpret the signal.

But she didn’t want just anyone. She wanted the man now holding out her fur-lined cloak to her, so they could step out and take the short walk to Fortemps Manor.

Not the Nuhn. Her husband.

Etien shrugged into the cloak, her earrings swaying where they dangled from her ears, and feeling suddenly both very mature and like she was playing dress-up in clothing that was too grown-up, too fancy for her.

As much as she had enjoyed how she looked in the mirror, as much as she liked wearing pretty dresses, being dressed now in something so fine, boned corsetry and crystal-studded netting, felt odd compared to the leather and metal layers of the armory.

But then, she didn’t want to always be the battle-maiden. She quite liked being a happy housewife, soft and in love. She even didn’t really mind being a noblewoman in title, even if it didn’t feel quite right.

She took Aymeric’s offered arm and let her chin lift in something akin to pride as they strode to the door and out into the crisply cold night. She could play this role as well as any other, frippery and furs the uniform of the high houses.

A cheer went up as Etien and Aymeric’s outerwear was taken, a few guests lifting their drinks and calling their greetings.

Etien’s ears moved to dip in embarrassment, but they flicked forward again as she fought the urge to be  overly modest.

She waved to the people still looking at her, giving them as wide of a smile as she could manage. She slipped her hand into Aymeric’s, leading him away from the door.

“We had better go find, Artoirel, don’t you think?” she said, the look in her eyes shockingly urgent to him.

“Of course. Lead the way, if you think you know where he is.”

They found Artoirel and Emmanellain sitting together, Artoirel making his way through a story he didn’t seem to want to be telling, Emmanellain lounged boredly beside him.

Both looked up as the pair approached, overjoyed at the distraction to ease their respective burdens.

“Etien! I’m so glad you have arrived,” Artoirel said, taking her elbows to pull her closer and press a single kiss to her cheek. “You have saved me from the most dull conversation I may ever have had. Though I feel they may want to hear your stories now,” he told her, voice low so only she, Aymeric, and Emmanellain could hear him.

The three of them laughed. “Yes, it’s good to see you, too,” Etien replied. “Go, host your party. Hopefully I’m as good of a storyteller as I am an archer.”

“Is that not part of being a bard?” Emmanellain asked, sitting down again.

“Well—it is,” she began.

Emmanellain just chuckled as he took a sip of the wine he’d put down when she’d arrived.

“Were there no skirts you were seeking and pursuing?” she asked him, sitting down herself, smoothing the material of her dress over her knees, spine straight.

She ran through every story she could share without revealing so much of the truth—tales from the Crystarium, mostly, all the details removed so she had only traveled to “a distant city”—and could feel herself beginning to fade and falter.

For a blessing, again, someone approached the couch she was now perched on, having replaced Artoirel before.

And when she looked up to see who it was, she broke into a wide smile, more genuine than her earlier one.

She moved to rise, but was encouraged to stay seated as he approached, sliding his fingers under hers.

Estinien lifted Etien’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss just above her knuckles, so her wedding ring hit his chin. “Viscountess.”

“Estinien, please,” she murmured.

“Lady Borel, then.”

“Estinien,” she repeated, her voice slightly more affected.

“Etien. You look radiant. Let me guess, Aymeric picked that dress out?”

She looked down at the dress, admiring it again. “He did. Another winner. He dresses me so well.”

“Fine taste in wine, fine taste in a woman, and fine taste in her clothing, that’s our Aymeric.”

She looked up to see Aymeric blushing under their praise, trying to hide it in the crystal goblet Estinien had handed him. Her eyes crinkled and lip pulled back in a playful grin. “Truly.” She sighed, dropping her hands to her lap. “I tire of chatter.” She rose. “Can we dance, Aymeric?”

He stammered for a moment, handing over his glass and giving Estinien’s back to him, one in each hand. Then, he offered his hand for Etien to take, and lead him to the space cleared for dancing.

The hired musicians were playing a slower song, a waltz they were fond of, when Aymeric and Etien reached the dance floor. So it was even easier to flow with the music, natural as walking.

“Is this the first time we’ve danced since you came home?” Aymeric asked, tilting his head as they turned.

“Certainly for longer than a single boxstep as we maneuvered around each other,” Etien admitted. “We still don’t dance enough.”

“Hard to find the time, when the battlefield has to take precedence over the dance floor.”

“But not right now. Ghimlyt is quiet, Norvrandt is at peace, and the Coerthan night is cold and beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” Aymeric replied.

Etien’s eyes closed slowly, accompanied by a light sigh as she accepted the compliment. “I’m blessed to be welcomed home and celebrated by a loving family and in the treasured company of my darling husband. Anyone would look beautiful when they were so happy.”

“I’ve half a mind to kiss you right now.”

“And why not the whole mind, ser?”

Laughing, Aymeric drew her closer and bent to kiss her.

It was a quick, chaste thing, and yet a whisper and a whoop went through the guests assembled. Caught.

Etien giggled, lifting a hand to her lips as they both stepped back, putting some distance between their bodies.

“There are some things which are somehow never acceptable,” Aymeric sighed. “Shall we continue this elsewhere?”

“That was why not the whole mind, wasn’t it?” she asked as they scampered down a hallway.

“I don’t suppose we can fault people for holding onto social rules that don’t cause anyone any real harm,” he said with a light shrug, moving closer to the window they stood before, watching the night sky mirror Etien’s gown in a darker, more wintry shade. “It likely will become something of the city-state’s quirk, eventually a value of the elderly that the youth ignore despite being chastised, and then someday, be gone completely. Perhaps that will be the sign we’re fully a part of the Alliance.”

“I refuse to make a habit of asking about Alliance politics, when I’m only there to offer my feet-on-the-ground perspective to half the leaders attending, but are you not already an integrated part? After all that to-do before the Sultana’s banquet, and then after Azys Lla? I admit, I was fairly distracted in both circumstances, but I could have sworn… and if they insist on dragging three-quarters of the Congregation out every time a cannon goes off--”

“Etien,” Aymeric said quietly, taking her hand. “I know I started it, but we aren’t here to speak of the Alliance. We’re here to celebrate that you’re finally, finally home. And, to people who paid attention, to  rejoice in the anniversary of our union.”

“Right,” she replied, voice soft as her gaze turned from the window to their threaded hands between them. “Happy anniversary, darling.”

“There’s no poetry already written or that I could compose now that would fully capture how this last year—these last two years, the three years I’ve had the privilege to know you—have been the most joy-filled of my life, for all the hell we’ve seen within them. I only wish we had ever gotten to spend much time together in that span.”

“What, stolen moments in your office and long weekends of me pretending I was your average runaway-turned-immigrant to Ishgard weren’t enough?”

“No,” he admitted. “I accept it, because all the time I get to have with you is precious, and because we both have the pressure of our acquired positions, but… sometimes I do wish we were ‘normal’. That we didn’t have to pretend.”

Etien was silent for a while, the mix of moonlight and distant lighting of the house making her eyes glisten—or perhaps that was a result of held-back tears. She blinked twice rapidly and then gave her response. “Me too.”

Far away on the dance floor, the music swelled, and with it, Aymeric’s heart. Despite the world and the myriad duties they had to fulfill in it pulling them apart, how many moments had they had like this? Where it was just the two of them, ensconced in their own little world where the stars shone only for them?

He could think of a few times, and in them, he had always felt so alive. Alive and in love, there with Etien and knowing that no matter what happened in the next moment, who needed them and what had to be done, those moments were theirs. And they were spending them together, wanting to be nowhere else.

If he had to steal them, then he would be the best thief the world had ever seen.

“You know,” he mused, trying desperately to lighten the mood and make up for bringing it so low, “out there, they can stop us from expressing our affection, but when it’s just the two of us, and we are supposed to be celebrating…”

Etien took a second, but then she gave him a grin, the one that made her eyeteeth glimmer in the moonlight. “When could they ever really stop us?”

She rubbed his thumb while they still held hands, then let him pick her up and met his lips with her own eagerly, one hand cupping his cheek, fingers catching stray strands of his hair between them, and the other arm slung over his shoulders. The typical position for when he held her aloft like that, attempting to support some of her own weight, but trusting him enough that she didn’t need to worry about letting her legs hang unsupported. She didn’t scrabble for purchase. He had her, as he always had her.

They broke for breath, and when she’d had her fill of air, she spoke. “I didn’t get to say it before, foolishly choosing to joke, but I want to make sure it’s said. I was nervous the day we met, even though Haurchefant told me I had nothing to worry about. I don’t think he had any idea what the years held for us, but he was right regardless. These have been three of the longest years of my life, but it’s like I said in my letters. A life with you is better than any alternative. I want slow years with you, so I can savor the time… rare though it is.”

“It won’t always be.”

“That’s what I’ve been praying for.”

“I intend to make it so, sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, please do,” she breathed, pulling him in again for a more heated kiss.

They separated when they heard footsteps, but it was too late.

Estinien had taken in the tableau, familiar though it was, in some ways. Etien’s right ear visible to the side of Aymeric’s head, a leg hooked over his hip, one exposed silver pump glinting in the dim light.

And then, the sheepish expressions, until they saw who it was that had come to them.

“I had come to bring you your abandoned wine, Aymeric,” Estinien began, “but I see you’re drinking deep of something else.”

“Aye, well…” he cleared his throat. “You’re welcome to join us, if you can keep quiet.”

“Oh, not a peep,” he assured the couple. “I cannot say I wouldn’t have been more shameless if it had been me.”

“It can be,” Etien said. “Would you say we’ve been here long enough, Aymeric? I never know how much time needs to pass before we look rude.”

“We had better take another turn talking to people,” he said with a near groan, taking his wine from Estinien. “Then we can leave. Bag up some celebration to bring home.”

Etien giggled, hooking her arms through both Aymeric’s and Estinien’s for a moment, before they went back into the party.

She would certainly be more a lively guest with that to look forward to.

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

Birthday prompt #8

(I have been posting these for so long now :’) my fingers and my brain are no longer connected. I need to sleep xD)

Read on Ao3 Birthday prompts masterlist

@xandiland

[Now that they’ve reunited with Elnor, who’s missed many of the events of the past few episodes, I’d like to see Elnor’s perspective on how the others approach Rios. Would he be disappointed in Picard for his brusqueness? Concerned that nobody else seems to see the pain he’s seeing? Who knows? But I think hyper-honest Elnor wouldn’t hold back in his assessment of the others’ failures and might finally get our boy Rios the caring and respect he so deserves.]

Elnor is overjoyed that Picard is no longer dead.

He would hold him and never let go if he could, but Picard isn’t very fond of hugs – a great pity – and Elnor himself is not entirely comfortable around him yet, and Picard is uncomfortable too since Elnor has told him that. Raffi and Soji and Doctor Jurati take all of Picard’s time anyway, so Elnor slips away one morning and goes to where la Sirena should be.

He thinks Seven might be there, and he hasn’t seen Captain Rios in a while now, and he misses both of them.

When he arrives at the charred spot where the ship initially crash-landed, he is surprised to see that there is nothing there. Why? Elnor wonders, anxiety coalescing in his chest into a mean jadashha that snaps and bite at his innards. Surely Captain Rios wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye? He wouldn’t leave Raffi, that is unthinkable.

But then Elnor remembers than Picard and Doctor Jurati used the ship to stop the Zhat Vash, and that they beamed down and left it up there. Nobody must have brought it back to the surface. Elnor goes back to the city and looks for Raffi, because she should know where Rios is.

He doesn’t find Raffi, but he finds Soji in a courtyard, angrily staring at her communicator. He doesn’t know Soji well, but he knows that Picard cares about her – that he died for her, which makes Elnor feel all kinds of sad and funny when he thinks about it – so she must be alright. She is Data’s daughter, and Elnor loved the stories about Data when he was a child.

“Soji,” he greets. He notices the pile of communicators next to her and the neural-enhanced portable replicator she is holding, and he frowns. “Do you have a problem with your communicator?”

“Yes,” she snaps, “how did you guess?”

Elnor is a bit taken aback, but he quickly understands the problem.

“You are frustrated, and you are not yet accustomed to the way of Absolute Candor, adding to your irritation. If you wish me to leave, I will go.”

Soji holds up a hand and beckons him closer, the “hold on” implied by her gestures. He approaches and studies the communicator she is holding. It does not appear broken, and the others don’t either. Elnor is puzzled.

“I do not understand, they appear to be functioning.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Soji sighs. She holds up the device for him to see. “It works well for on-planet communication, but I can’t seem to get a hold of Rios.”

Elnor perks up.

“You wish to speak to Captain Rios? I was looking for him, I haven’t seen him in several days. Or Seven.”

Soji hands him the comm badge and starts fiddling with another one.

“You are growing increasingly agitated,” Elnor notices. Out of curiosity, he taps on the badge himself and raises it to his mouth. “Hello, Captain Rios, this is Elnor. Can you hear me?”

Silence answers him, and Soji gives him a strange look. It might have been meant to convey “told you so,” but Elnor is not yet entirely familiar with Human facial expressions. They can slightly differ from Romulan ones, and there was no need for face reading among the Qowat Milat. He tilts his head and waits for her to stop trying to get the other badge to work, studying her in the meantime.

“Rios, come in,” she says curtly in the device. “I need to beam up.”

“You do not appear to be eager to speak to Captain Rios,” Elnor points out, confused. “You are angry and short-tempered, when there is no actual reason for you to be. What is the real cause of your frustration?”

Soji huffs and crosses her arms, and looks heavenwards.

“Nothing too important. I’m just… I just thought I would get away from the city a little bit, now that things are settling. I just want to spend a day and a night up there and come back.”

Elnor nods in understanding. He looks at the communicator again, just as Doctor Soong strides into view. Elnor doesn’t like Doctor Soong. He has already told him once and been informed by Picard and Raffi that it was not an appropriate thing to say, but now Doctor Soong knows and the dislike is mutual. The time for hostilities is past, though, so Elnor nods politely when the man walks to them.

“Soji, Elnor,” Doctor Soong greets, studying the communicator pile with the same interest as Elnor has previously displayed. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to call Captain Rios,” Soji explains, tossing one of the badges at Doctor Soong. “Is there a disruption in the planetary tachyon field? None of these seem to work.”

Doctor Soong frowns and checks something on a very small portable holo-transmitter he had in his pocket, frowning at the green floating screen. Elnor doesn’t know what the readings mean, so he waits.

“Well,” Doctor Soong says after a minute, “there is no disruption at all, and your badges are working just fine. Either the ship is experiencing a malfunction, or Captain Rios is ignoring you.”

The jadashha is back, gnawing at Elnor’s stomach. Captain Rios doesn’t ignore people. He listens, even if you are a despicable Zhat Vash assassin, and he talks, even if you are a very angry xB about to murder an old acquaintance.

“That would not be like him,” Elnor protests.

Soji makes a face.

“He hid in his quarters for a while when I got aboard la Sirena. Maybe he just wants some peace and quiet.”

“I do not believe that,” Elnor protests. And because he is now worried about Captain Rios and Seven of Nine, who is probably up there with him, he picks up one of the badges again and tries one more time. “Captain Rios? This is Elnor. I feel anxious because you do not answer our messages, and I would like to see you and Seven, to alleviate my worry. May I come aboard?”

Elnor dissolves away before Soji and Soong have had any time to call his endeavor pointless. He materializes on la Sirena’s transporter pad, of course, and Captain Rios gives him a two-fingered salute. Elnor copies it, and moves to hug him.

“It fills my heart with joy to see that you are alright,” he says as he folds the Captain into an embrace.

Rios laughs – it makes his chest rumble, and it’s a very peculiar feeling that Elnor likes – and he hugs Elnor back before gently pushing him away.

“Hey there, hermanito,” Rios grins. “Seven’s fine too, before you ask. I think she’s in the sonic. Or on the holodeck, I don’t know.”

Elnor nods and studies Rios, and he is disheartened by what he sees. The Captain looks tired and he has red eyes, like Humans get when they have not slept enough. He thinks it might be to make themselves more intimidating to compensate for their temporary weakness. Romulans do not get green eyes, so he cannot be sure. Elnor has seen the red eyes on Raffi, on Agnes, on Seven too, and even on Picard, but Captain Rios’ red eyes are worse. He must be feeling very weak.

“You are exhausted,” Elnor says. “I do not understand. We have won. Picard is alive. Are you not happy? Why are you neglecting to rest?”

Captain Rios stiffens like Elnor has just hit him. They stare into each other’s eyes for a long while, Elnor unblinking returning Rios’ scrutinizing gaze, and then Captain Rios sighs tiredly and motions Elnor to follow. They go to the bridge, and Captain Rios sits in his chair, leaning heavily against the back.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, kid,” Rios mutters, rubbing at his face. “I just… I just can’t right now. I don’t see pretty pictures when I close my eyes.”

“Is that why you were ignoring Soji’s calls? Because you did not wish for anyone to see that you are tired?” Elnor inquires. But wait, it does not make sense. “But Seven is there.”

Rios huffs.

“It’s not like that. I just don’t want to see people right now, especially not Picard or Soji.”

That confuses Elnor, but he decides to go back to that in a minute, once he has dealt with another puzzling aspect of Rios’ explanation.

“You are seeing me,” he says, sitting on the console so he can face Rios. “I am not people?”

Rios snorts.

“You asked, kid. And you were worried about Seven and me. I’m just not too keen on letting them touch my stuff right now.”

Elnor carefully reviews what he has gathered of Rios’ relationship with Picard and Soji. He remembers that Rios was crying too when Picard died, and that he came to find him and Raffi when they were both sobbing, alone. Elnor remembers what Raffi told him later, that Rios’ Captain died and that it involved Jana, a girl that looked just like Soji and Sutra. He remembers that Soji had only good things to say about Captain Rios, and that he’d accepted to let his ship go through a Borg conduit to reach Coppelius faster despite the damage it could cause to his home.

Elnor tries, and tries, and tries, but he doesn’t understand why Rios would not wish to see Soji. Picard, Elnor can understand, because things are confusing and awkward and even he cannot seem to know how to act when he usually never bothers thinking about it. But Soji?

“I do not understand,” Elnor states.

Rios huffs and tilts his head back.

“I just want to be alone, Elnor,” he says.

“That is a half-truth.”

“Mierda, you’re annoying,” Rios smiles. It’s a small smile and it’s tired, but it counts. “Okay, here’s the thing. I wouldn’t mind letting them come aboard if they asked, like you did. Soji hasn’t so far. She’s just told me she needed to be beamed up.” He takes in a deep breath. “La Sirena is my ship, kid. My home.”

“This is distressing to hear,” Elnor says sadly, mouth twisting into a little pout. “But if you told everyone how you feel, then they would ask.”

Rios frowns.

“Maybe I don’t do that because I’d like them to figure it out by themselves. I want them to get it.”

Elnor nods and got up. Captain Rios looks surprised to see him go, but Elnor has things to attend to.

“I will be back shortly,” he assures him, striding to the transporter buffet. “Please tell Seven I came by.”

“Sure thing, hermano,” Captain Rios says back.

Elnor teleports to the surface before any questions can be asked.

“Elnor!” Soji exclaims as she watched him reappear. “Are they alright? Why did he beam you up?”

“Because I asked,” Elnor answered curtly, brushing past her.

He needs to find Raffi.

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

“I believe that your behavior has been unsatisfactory,” Elnor tells Picard in lieu of a greeting, earning himself a confused look and a raised eyebrow.

Picard does not believe he will ever get used to the way of Absolute Candor. But blunt as it always is, he has rarely heard Elnor speaks to him so harshly. It reminds him of Vashti, when fourteen years of pent-up feelings of rejection and bitterness were suddenly free to overflow, and Picard does not like it in the slightest.

“What are you talking about, Elnor?”

“I am talking about you and, and Soji. Raffi has told me much of what happened on the ship during my absence. It has made me very upset, and I am angered as well.”

Picard sits back in his seat and frowned, waiting for Elnor to elaborate. It might all just be a misunderstanding, or so he hopes. After the resolution of the threat to both the galaxy and the synthetics, and his own death and resurrection, Picard is far too tired to engage in more conflict.

“Explain to me what this is about before this conversation goes any further,” Picard requests.

“Captain Rios was very hurt by your words and actions when you and Soji came back from Nepenthe, and I do not believe you ever apologized.”

That’s unexpected. Picard frowns, trying to recall what he could have done to deserve the scathing rebuke.

“You yelled at him,” Elnor informs him before before he can wrestle with his memory any further. “Soji hacked his ship and tried to steal it. You mutinied. Those were not honorable actions.”

Ah. Picard can understand why Elnor would see it that way. It’s a good thing Rios doesn’t. Clearly, this is a case of miscommunication, like he hoped.

“Elnor, Rios agreed to bring us to Coppelius. There was no ‘mutiny’ and no hijacking.”

Elnor stares at him intently, and then shakes his head. Picard sees his eyes narrow. He doesn’t understand why right away, but he has the feeling that Elnor is somehow terribly disappointed.

“You sat in his chair,” Elnor counters. “You tried taking control of his ship. Soji used the name of a dead person from his past to get him to say yes. I fail to see how you do not grasp the extent of your disregard for Captain Rios’ feelings.”

Picard would like to argue, say that Rios really didn’t mind, but the truth is that he can’t be sure. They were all under severe amounts of stress after the Cube and Nepenthe. It is possible that in his own eagerness to help Soji, he failed to see Rios’ own struggles with the situation. It would certainly be in character for him, at any rate.

“Captain Rios agreed to take you to Coppelius because he is nice,” Elnor deems important to add. “You needed help and he could give it. That’s not a reason not to ask.”

Elnor is gone before Picard can think of an answer. He sighs.

“Soji,” he calls into his communicator, “could I see you for a moment? I think we need to give Rios a call.”

[athenadcvell]

If you're up for it, Stephen Strange and any brotp (I prefer friendship to romance lol). But any other character, common or rare, male or female, human or alien. Any genre from comedy to whump. I just really like Stephen. I need more Stephen.

@aelaer ... Hiiiiiiiii.... ok. So. I don’t even know if you remember making this request, but long story short, you probably made it near the end of July, or beginning of August. So ages ago. And me being me, I decided to postpone writing it until just now. Basically, I lost a lot of inspiration for writing and found it really hard to even sit in front of a computer, but I miss doing something I love, so I’m back and ready to write again. And I finally finished your ask, and I wanna say how sorry I am for taking so long. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fic!

Word Count: 2,606

Warnings: None, unless you count angst and a little fluff

A/N: The brotp is Wong and Stephen, because I don’t think we get enough of their friendship and I thought this would be fun to do. Tbh I don’t think this is my best work because I’m trying to slowly get back into writing again, but I still tried really hard on this, so hopefully you enjoy :)

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So many things were wrong with today. Not just because today was today, but because of small, simple things that you don’t normally think about. The weather, for instance. It was too sunny. The clouds were too white and the sky was too blue. And that god awful sun. Why would it shine so brightly? 

The birds were chirping too cheerfully. The sang their meaningless songs of nature and serenity, not a clue what effect they were having on the humans around them. Don’t they have any respect? They wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for… 

Stephen closes his eyes slowly, trying (and failing) to block out those pestering thoughts. What good will it do now? What’s done is done. 

Today was the funeral of Anthony Edward Stark. A father. Husband. Mentor. 

A hero. A dead hero. 

And it’s Stephen’s fault. 

He can imagine what Christina would say if she were here. Hell, what Wong would say. 

“It’s not your fault, Stephen. It was the only way.” Or would they even say that? No one knows it was the only way except for him. No one else manipulated the time stone and underwent the millions of scenarios, only to find one that didn’t result in the world ending in a fiery ball of Thanos’ wrath. He’s the only one who will ever be burdened with this. With having to witness Earth being destroyed over and over and over… 

Stephen looks up, seeing the small silhouette of a little girl by the lake. The funeral ended about an hour ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He should leave. Go back to the sanctum and get to work in rebuilding the chaos the world is left in at the moment. But he can’t bring himself to. 

Tony was his friend. Someone he had come to care for. Perhaps this Tony didn’t consider Strange a friend, however, Stephen considered all of them his friends and teammates. He had gone to hell and back with them fourteen million six hundred and five times. He had developed bonds, whether they knew it or not. 

Morgan Stark. The daughter of the man he… he what? Stephen didn’t kill Tony. Sure, he could have let the deceased remain deceased, however, eventually, another threat would come. He saw that. He saw the Avengers being slaughtered and humans being taken as slaves. He saw it all. This was the only way… right?

Stephen has to turn away from her. He can’t bear to look at this small child who can barely understand what is going on today. All she knows is that her father won’t be there to tuck her in tonight. And that kills Stephen. It lays an unearthly amount of guilt upon his shoulders. One man’s life for half of the universe shouldn’t be a difficult concept to accept. 

So why is he having such a hard time accepting that Tony Stark is really gone?

Stephen lets out a quiet sigh, turning away to walk into the woods. A walk, before he goes back. To clear his head. That’s what he needs right now. 

He doesn’t get far when a shadow appears in front of his feet. Raising a brow, the sorcerer follows the darkness of the shadow to its owner, slightly surprised to see Wong standing in front of him. For once, he’s dressed in something other than  his robes, adorning a simple black suit instead. 

“Shouldn’t you be guarding the sanctum?”

  “I left Master Awiti in charge,” Wong waves him off, hands clasped professionally behind his back. “Besides. I never did get my tuna melt.”

Stepehn stares at the sorcerer, dumbfounded. He can’t be serious?

“You’re telling me,” Stephen begins, raising a scrutinizing brow. “That in the last five years, you never bothered to buy a tuna melt?” Wong shrugs. 

“Everyone at the deli was dead.”

“Oh, so there were none other open?”

“Come, Let’s go get a sandwich,” Wong ignores his last question, opening a portal and stepping aside. Stephen rolls his eyes, nonetheless stepping through the circle crackling with golden sparks. 

“This place is still open?” Stephen questions quietly as they come to a halt in front of the deli. It was a continuous favorite of his. Even before all… this. Before the accident, when he was just a surgeon who was impeccably good at his job. 

“Yes,” Wong nods, walking ahead of him to enter the shop. Stephen runs a hand along his peppered hair, sighing once again and following after his friend. 

It’s a simple deli, with an array of meats on display in front of the cash register, and a few wooden benches to sit and eat on. After ordering and receiving their sandwiches, the two men take a seat by the window and dive in. 

Well, Wong dives in. Stephen, on the other hand, doesn't touch his food, simply staring out the window with a longing look in his eyes. Wong follows his line of sight to across the street, where a row of condos sit. A teenager knocks on the door, holding a slip of paper between her shaking hands. She knocks on the door, once, then steps back, pushing her shoulders back and standing straight. As the door opens, and as a young man comes into view, her shoulders immediately drop. They speak for a bit, before she sulks away. 

“She’s looking for her family,” Stepohen states, attempting to come off as casual. Wong hears the tenseness in his voice. 

“Many families were misplaced after Thanos,” Wong explains, folding his hands together. “I’m sure she will find hers soon.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“I actually wanted to speak to you about that,” Wong clears his throat, leaning forward. “I had plans to bring it up after a meal, but this works as well. Myself and some of the other sorcerers thought it would be fit for us to assist in reuniting families, as we have locators on every person-”

“Do what you want,” Stephen waves him off, catching his friend by surprise. 

“What?”

“You ran the sanctum just fine for five years,” Stephen crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back. “Take over. I’m done.”

“Strange-”

“I completed my purpose, Wong,” He cuts Wong off, brows furrowing together. “I helped save the universe. And in doing so, I took a father away from his child. A husband away from his wife. I robbed the world of a hero. So no, I don’t want to go back to the Sanctum and continue being the Sorcerer Supreme. I… I can’t.”

Wong has never seen him like this before. So… broken. Stephen doesn’t do broken. He does confidence, and a bit too much pride to be healthy. But broken? Wong knew he had put himself in a time loop, but he didn’t think it had affected him this much. 

“Get up,” Wong stands abruptly, looking down at Stephen with a hardset gaze. Stephen stares back, clearly confused. “We’re walking now. Up.”

Strange lets out a heavy sigh, smoothening down the sides of his hair and following after Wong. The golden portal opens up, and the two step through. Stephen is surprised to find himself standing in the midst of a forest. Pine and leaves drift through the air, the sounds of squirrels scuttling up trees and birds chirping happily the only ones to hear. The sorcerer’s pale eyes drift up towards the sky, clouded by towering trees wearing soft blankets of moss. 

All in all, it’s very calming. Serene. Well, it should be serene. Stephen finds it… plain. He used to find all of serenity and happiness in an O.R, before the accident. Before every aspect of his life changed. 

“Where are we, Wong?” He sighs, turning towards his friend tiredly. Wong ignores him, continuing to gaze calmly at the scene. 

“I come here when I am feeling overwhelmed,” Replies Wong after a long moment, hands clasped behind his back. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. 

“Okay…” Stephen’s eyes flicker left and right before back to his friend, who happens to be weirding him in this particular situation. “So what do I-”

“I grew up in the sanctum,” Wong interrupts, slightly annoying the other. “I come from a long generation of Chinese monks that served the Ancient One. I watched my father- Master Hamir- practice alongside her for years. It was quite the image to live up to, and I remember constantly being frightened that I would not achieve the level of excellence and perfection he had in his work.”

“Master Hamir is your father?” Stephen chokes in disbelief. “H-How did I not know this? I thought we were friends, Wong. Friends tell friends when they’re fathers are working in the same building as them!”

“This forest in Northern China gave me peace and moments of redemption from the real world. Trapping myself in the mirror dimension and meditating allowed me to think, and grow.”

“All this time, I just thought you two talked a lot because you were friends,” Stephen scoffs, shaking his head, still hung up on the earlier subject. Wong rolls his eyes. 

“I failed to mention it because there was no benefit in you knowing. Now pay attention. I brought you to this sacred place to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Strange mutters stubbornly turning away. 

“Do you hear that?” Wong asks quietly, closing his eyes. Stephen snorts. 

“What? The sound of my time being wasted? Loud and clear, buddy.”

“The river,” The librarian corrects. “The splash of water against the stones? The creatures of the forest lapping it up?”

“Sure,” Stephen plays along, shrugging. “I hear it.”

“Do you hear the sounds of the birds chirping in the trees?”

“Yes.”

“And the squirrels running up the trees to the safety of their burrows?”

“Yes, Wong, I have ears,” Stephen snaps. “Now that we’ve confirmed that I’m not deaf, can we go home? I have work I need to finish.”

“The animals,” Wong, once again, ignores him. “The trees, and the grass. Even the insects crawling beneath our feet. They wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. You helped bring them back”

Stephen freezes in place, stiffening up. He’s an idiot. He should have known what Wong’s goal was all along. But then again, Wong isn’t exactly a “help you feel better’ kind of person. He’s the kind of person who will tell you to suck it up and keep fighting, because that’s the only thing to do. This… all of it… if very new territory. 

“I know that,” Stephen glares at him, whipping around. “I helped. We all did. You think I don’t know that?”

“You blame yourself,” Wong tells him. “For the deaths. Iron Man. Widow. Gamora. The Vision. Loki. The Asgardians. All the lives lost after the snap, those who weren’t strong enough to handle the losses. Those who couldn’t survive without-”

“I don’t,” Stephen cuts him off harshly, clenching his shaking hands in frustration. When he gets particularly angry, it’s hard to control the tremors. “That’s not my problem. My priority was defeating Thanos, and it’s done! It’s over! I did what needed to be done, and I can’t do anything about anyone whose dead! I can’t bring them back!  I can’t… ”

It’s too much. Too much pain, and guilt. Too many emotions. 

Shit. 

It’s an overload on his heart, and before Stephen knows it, he’s breaking down. He stumbles in his place, falling to the floor messily. It doesn’t matter. The stinging in his knees and palms, the stinging in his eyes… nothing compares to the pain in his heart. The weight crushing his shoulders. 

He buries his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. It all comes rushing at once. The millions of scenarios, and deaths… Flashes of memories… Thanos stabbing Tony threw the chest with no chance of resurrection, Quill being practically ripped in half, Peter’s being thrown back with so much force he dies on impact… that wasn’t dust. They didn't turn to dust. They died. Horrifying and gruesome deaths, in front of those who cared about them. Over, and over, and over, and-

“Strange!” Wong’s booming voice pulls him back into reality, and the sorcerer realizes tears are making there way down his cheeks. Not just one. Several stain his skin, small little indications of sorrow written across his features. 

“I’m fine,” He pushes Wong away, attempting to stand up. It’s a failed attempt as he stumbles back and lands back on the floor with a defeated thump. “I’m fine. I’m… I’m …,” He harshly wipes away the tears, wanting to force himself to stop this madness. There is no reason, no reason to cry. To be sad. He survived. His friends. Survived. But this toll…

Wong doesn’t try to comfort or help Stephen up, which he is thankful for. Instead, the librarian takes a seat on a rock beside him, and folds his hands together. He sits quietly, closing his eyes and peacefully meditating. 

“I helped save them,” Stephen finally speaks, leaning against a tree stump. “I protected the stone and gave it up. I helped orchestrate the events so they would happen. But… five years, Wong. Five years of parents mourning their children. Of friends having an empty void in their lives, and children wandering around mindlessly without the guiding hands of their mothers and fathers. Five years… you know in one instance, it was five hundred years? Everything happened the same, except this time, I let five hundred years go by. A new age of heroes saved the Earth, but it wasn’t the Earth anymore. It was so broken and different that I had to scrap it. Another time, five months went by. I changed some events, leaving clues. But they weren’t ready, and Thanos came in contact with the stones again. He destroyed the Earth. This was the only way.”

He waits for Wong to cut in with some sort of inspirational note, and is caught by surprise when he does not. Slightly relieved, as well. 

“I close my eyes, and I see them. Dying. Because of me-”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Strange,” Wong finally speaks. “You always like to make it about you. Everyone who died died because of a reason, and that reason was not you. The Asgardians happened to come across Thanos’ ship. The daughter of Thanos died at his hand, and Stark was always ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good. They did that. Not you. Them.”

“But-”

“No,” Wong cuts in, opening his eyes just enough to roll them. “No more buts. This is a sacred place. Sit and be silent, I no longer want to hear about your non existent self pity. It was a war, and individuals die in war. That is no one’s fault but the enemy. And you’re solution is to give up? That’s a cowards way out, Stephen.” 

Stephen slumps back in defeat, pressing his thumb into his right palm. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of a hardass?”

“What do you not understand about, be silent?” Wong sighs, causing Stephen to smirk and begin talking about something else mindlessly. Wong mocks annoyance, but deep inside, he feels relief, and even a bit of happiness. Five years was far too long for Strange to be gone. Sure, he may be annoying, and though Wong would never admit it, he missed the Sorcerer. For the obvious reasons, of course. Stephen is his superior, his partner, and someone he had once had the pleasure of helping and teaching. 

And dare he say it, Stephen Strange is his friend.

***

Hope you liked it!