#i really hope they do the double agent angle if they do anything like this

[adarkermiserablecrow]

One of my biggest fears folowing the end of s7 was that there would be some kind of lawsuit 2.0 era where Buck as the resident White Guy would be at least somewhat complicit with Gerrard's bs and then be redeemed in some shape or form and uhhh I am concerned

[hyperions-light]

hey I was planning another post today but instead let’s talk about how much I love that there’s not really a ‘good’ ending to the companion plotlines in Veilguard. It reminds me of Leliana and Alistair’s plotlines in DAO in that what you choose says more about the player/protagonist than anything

I just finished Isana Negat a second time, and I did the other ending and I thought it was just as good. Like, yeah, Harding does deserve to be angry! They did fucking get everything taken away from them! It’s so painful and horrific; yes you can, and should, be mad! But also Harding prioritizing her very real love for and compassion towards other people is not wrong. It’s just different! It’s just Rook’s friend/lover asking them for advice, and Rook giving it! You know, like in real life except with huge magical rock giants

And okay I’m never going to kill Illario because I think it would make Luca really sad and he has enough problems, Whoops I misremembered this, I don’t think you can kill Illario actually. I love that for Luca <3 But yk, I’m probably still not going to imprison him. but I can see it! Because the cycle has to end, right? The violence and infighting of the Crows endlessly attacking each other over power is part of what allowed the Antaam to get a foothold in Antiva, because there was like a double agent or something (if I’m remembering right from Tev Nights). Some kind of ending needs to be made to this endless violence. And I suppose it depends on how retributive Rook is, which is a great question to ask of the player (one that is asked repeatedly throughout the game). It’s not like Illario didn’t do anything, you know! He probably deserves punishment. But Rook, as they always can at various points, can be merciful, can choose absolution. Wow no, I’m glad I was wrong I love it more like this.

And oh boy, I LOVED the ending of Emmrich’s quest, don’t even get me started! Like!! I thought it was going to be ‘well obviously we HAVE to save Manfred’, but how Emmrich talks about accepting his death and his sacrifice convinced me! I was like alright man, this is a real choice! I actually did make him a lich last time (made a lot of sense from a Watcher perspective, imo) and not only was the cutscene sick as hell, but the follow-up was so funny and I got some really sad Spite dialogue which fucking wrecked me. It was great— seriously, his plotline is one of my favorites in the whole game.

And Davrin’s! I’ve already expounded at length about how much I like his quest line and how it ties into the Grey Wardens, but I really think both of his options for the griffons are so workable, because you know the Grey Wardens, especially under Antione and Evka, aren’t going to hurt those little guys again! But also the scenes with Eldrin are so endearing, and Davrin’s hope for a brighter future for them is so sweet and genuine. It’s hard to pick! It’s about Rook's perspective!

Neve's I'll admit I don't vibe with as much just because of the like 'trust the authorities' angle, but i haven't tried saving Minrathous yet and I think it would be sooooo involving as a Shadow Dragon especially. Because that's what they're fighting for, right? That better Minrathous where they CAN be sure that if they send the insane cultist lady to prison she’s going to stay there? But there’s always the practical consideration of people’s lives being at stake NOW, of Neve needing her friends safe NOW. And just killing Aelia ensures she will never be an issue again. So I can see both angles for sure

And Taash ;-; oh, Taash. I haven’t posted about them that much yet because they make me very emotional and it’s hard to organize thoughts like that. But I really love their quest, and their struggle to define themselves. And look, I know people wanted the option to tell them they could be both, but like as a person who has lived a similar experience, it really feels sometimes like the world is making you choose. It can feel like you’re not enough of either thing for anyone. And there are parts of your identity that you will have to make a choice on, and I think it’s trying to speak to that. I did the Rivaini one, and it’s like… well, they’re embracing the culture of Rivain, but it’s not like anyone is ever going to look at them and NOT see a Qunari. You can’t get away from that. What you choose to do in response is a real dilemma and I think that if you engage with the text genuinely you can see what Trick was doing. Also, there is a really great dialogue from Rook that I think gives more context to the discussion; they can say that they have been many things, and it’s important to take what works from each experience and make it part of yourself. So I don’t think Taash’s plot is trying to make them throw away any of themselves, just defining priorities. (Sorry, that got long. Feelings, opinions about that one)

And I don’t think Bellara’s is obvious, either, especially with how they involve the Nadas Dirthalen in her personal plot. This is a thing that is really emotionally and culturally significant to her, but at the same time it is part of what hurt her brother and ultimately took him away from her. She’s really preoccupied with not causing harm by her actions; she spends the whole game worried about it! And even though Rook doesn’t see the dangerous elements of the repository, that doesn’t mean they’re not there. The puzzle quest you can find in Arlathan proves that other people besides Cyrian were taken in by Anaris. And also, there’s the plot thread they briefly touched on in the last game which is that the culture the Dalish have built, that they have RIGHT NOW, is not wrong. But it’s also important to remember history, even if it’s unpleasant or could be dangerous, which is another thing you can discuss with Bellara during the game. So there’s no wrong choice! It’s just about Rook and Bellara and what’s important from their perspectives.

Anyway it was super refreshing to have these kinds of choices! It reminds me of the best character choices in DAI and DAO, especially, and I’m so happy they carried those things forward and improved on them.

[azreactstowormtheserial]

Yeah, okay. [7.1-8.1]

"I don't know much about Coil, and by his own words, he is not a good person. But as the only person striving for meaningful change-- whether his methods are morally sound or not-- I think I'd feel more comfortable with Skitter under his wing than, say, Armsmaster's." I should try and hold my tongue when it comes to making moral judgements, 'cause I have a feeling they're all going to come back to bite me.

Arc 7 had a lot of emotional ups-and-downs. I'm starting to love the dynamic between Taylor and Rachel-- and I'm glad there's so much of it. Out of everyone in the crew, Rachel needed the most screentime to not stay the same hard to understand person that attacked Taylor out of nowhere, and it definitely paid off. Alec's... complicated? I knew from the start that his demeanour-- and hell, the fact that he's a parahuman to begin with-- was a front, and his attitudes a result of a fucked up past. Now we've been given just a little bit of insight to it, and we've really seen Alec and how he acts as an Undersider for a while, I think Alec is easily the most closed off of the 5. Not that that's a bad thing. I just hope he gets more time to shine. Before anything of the sort could happen, though-- fucking Coil! Coil! What are you doing!! Thinking about the moral implications of what Coil is doing hurts my head. In a good way. Even after what he did threw The Undersiders completely under the bus-- I was sure he had a rational, maybe-fucked-up, course of reasoning behind it. He was playing a game of 4D Chess while we were seeing just one angle of the picture, and couldn't have known what forced him to make that play. And, the fights inbetween were really cool. But then, towards the tail-end of the arc, we actually speak to Coil. And--

Even before I clocked it-- around the same time as Taylor, coincidentally-- something was just so horrifically wrong with this scene. The tension, the vibes-- immaculate. My favorite single chapter to date.

Coil is terrifying. Regardless of his motivations, what he wants to bring to the city, I just can't imagine it as a better place if its in control of someone like him.

The way he speaks is cold and calculating. His methods are cruel and cross a clear line. He kidnapped a kid! And has her on fucking Molly, for all I know! But even after all that, I didn't expect the confrontation moments after. Taylor just leaving. Done and disappointed so soon after her pledge to want to get to know her friends without the whole double-agent weight on her back. It hurt.

And I thought it was just going to end there, and then an end-of-the-world-scenario-happened-out-of-nowhere.

I 'dunno. I feel like my heart's got emotional whiplash, and that I need a break-- but fuck that, I'm ploughing through. See you after Arc 8.

Oh, the interlude was good too, but I was a little too eager to get to 8.

[angelasscribbles]

Hii 🥰

What is something you love about your MC / OC? You can create and share anything you’d like 😍 HC‘s, moodboards, edits or drabbles. Have fun and gush about your MC / OC 🥰

Also what made you create your MC /OC what was your inspiration?

Thank you so much for the ask!!

I use the default name, Riley Brooks for my current MC, but of course, my Riley is different from anyone else's, and even my Riley's are from series to series.

No version of her that I write is me, but yet there are pieces of me in every version of her.

It took me forever to find my face claim for her: Barbara Palvin. I preset to you now some of my favorite things about her.

This mood board:

Then there is this edit by @peonierose :

and this one by @harleybeaumont :

My original eight series used MC Riley Campbell. I stuck close to canon for my first five series. As I moved away from canon and played up the love triangle angle, I felt like there was a double standard for the male LIs vs the female MC. So I created my version of Riley Brooks to kind of push back against that a little. My first endeavor in that direction was Savage Love. Here is the snippet I posted about that. This is taken from the "Premise and notes" I posted ahead of the prologue:

A/N 3: My main reason/idea/inspiration for this story was to write a main character who was a bit different. In my other series, I feel like I’m constantly having to explain/justify/make reasons for her to be sleeping with more than one man. And I got to thinking, why? Why not have a main character who owns her sexuality? Who has sex with who she wants, when she wants, without apology, without needing a justification? You know, like men do? Someone who is a badass in her own right. Someone who refuses to be controlled by outdated, sexist ideas. So, without further ado, I present to you Agent Riley Brooks.

I love her independence, her audacity, and her irreverence. She is out of bounds half the time and she drives the men in her life crazy, but when she loves, she loves fiercely and will go to any lengths for those she loves.

Riley acts the way Riley acts because she's protecting herself.

I think I'll let Savage Love Liam speak here:

I knew she wasn’t as jaded as she wanted everyone to think she was. She had a heart, and it was soft and vulnerable and that’s why she protected it. I could see it so clearly. I saw it that first night in New York.

Yes, she was full of life and fire, she glowed with it. She was magnetic, drawing men to her effortlessly, most of them knocking into her in vain, unable to penetrate her shields. But she was more than that. Everyone could see the physical beauty and that spark of life that was so intoxicating, but not everyone realized how much more was simmering below the surface.

I did. And I wanted it, all of it. Not just her fire, not just her passion, I wanted her depths, her pain, her tenderness. I wanted every piece of her.

Or Bad Romance Drake:

She certainly made my career more interesting. Guarding Riley has been an exercise in forethought, contingency planning and diplomacy. Trying to stay a step ahead of her can be exhausting. You have no idea the number of international incidents that have been narrowly avoided over the years because someone’s boyfriend, husband or son was a little too enamored of our queen. Or, sometimes their girlfriend, wife or daughter. She attracts attention wherever she goes, and she chaffs under restraint. She has always kept us on our fucking toes. It’s infuriating and frustrating is what it is. But I really wouldn’t have it any other way because then she wouldn’t be her. And I fucking love her.

Mostly I love the way she owns who she is wholly, completely, and without apology.

I hope ya'll aren't tired of my tags tonight! Clearing out my asks and my "extras" folders! Tagging under the cut.

All Things TRR:

@nestledonthaveone  @karahalloway  @tessa-liam  @belencha77 @lovingchoices14

@21-wishes @secretaryunpaid @lunaseasblog  @princessleac1 @bebepac

@emersyn-in-cordonia @walkerdrakewalker @73geenalove  @sillydg @twinkle-320

@queen-arabella-of-cordonia @tinkie1973 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @jared2612 @mainstreetreader

@amandablink @harleybeaumont  @xpandass420x @ladyangel70 @twinkleallnight

@dcbbw  @indiacater @queenmiarys @phoenixrising0308 @gabesmommie1130

@kingliam2019 @3pawandme @bascmve01

[neonponders]

I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself @hoegrove your Bond!au is just too strong.

Based on their post here ~

I hope you like it 🥺 🌹 it’s on ao3, if that’s easier for anyone to read 🌹

• • • • • • •

013.

Fucking 013. Not 00.

Which meant he’d have to wait for whoever got the 00 status he deserved to either die or become incompetent.

“Congratulations, Hargrove. Report to HQ for briefing.”

He’d rather be headed for the private plane that would take him to some tropical location, where capitalist monsters waited for his bullet.

Hargrove stepped out of the elevator onto the spacious floor. He really wished HQ would renovate. The concrete floors, glass walls, and metal beams were urban but not chic.

He found the corresponding desk of his... “partner” of sorts. Every number had a letter. The computer and the muscle. As Hargrove removed his outer garment, though, only the computer desk was present, while the person - 

“Could you not dump your nasty jacket on my work station?”

Hargrove sighed and found the loon - on a bicycle. He frowned. “What the hell are you doing on a bike inside?”

“It helps me think,” Q said, riding slow laps in between the cubicles. Granted, there weren’t many of them, and Hargrove was pretty sure he’d only ever seen Q and maybe three other people on this entire floor, unless there was a crisis.

Maybe that’s why he had yet to be promoted to 00. Too much peace.

“Take your jacket off my seat!”

“Jesus Christ,” Billy cursed. He balled up the ruined jacket and threw at the bastard’s head. To his credit, he didn’t crash into anything. “Clean freak.”

“That’s Q to you,” he barked, dumping the raggedy garment into the nearest bin.

“Sure, Steve,” he purred, knowing his partner loathed the fact that he had figured out his real name. Hargrove wouldn’t work for just anybody, after all. And he was a detective first. Hired gun second.

He didn’t actually need Q. So he told himself. But Steve sure came in handy.

“So help me god, Billy. Did you at least keep my pen intact?”

“Your what?” He landed in Steve’s spinning chair, forcing the guy to lean his bike against his cubicle and stand with his hands on his hips.

“My pen, dip shit. You know, the one that’s basically a Swiss army knife. The one sanctioned by HQ to one Asshole Hargrove - ”

“Oh, that,” he said distantly, gazing out at the city around them. “It broke.”

Not surprised, nor impressed, Steve remarked, “You realize that if some nerd civilian reverse-engineers half the shit you lose, we might be genuinely compromised, right?”

“Then make better stuff.”

“Stop losing it, and you might actually be 00 one day.”

Billy glared with all the menace a man could while having his chair rolled out of the way. Steve shoved him aside with his foot and entered his computer password before navigating to the corresponding case briefs. Billy let his head recline on the seat while Steve went through the list.

“Target?”

“Deceased.”

“Car?”

“Totaled, but returned.”

“Pen: lost in action. Suspect?”

“Null. Excellent in bed, though.”

“You’re a cliche.” Steve glared from behind his glasses.

“Stop giving me cases with attractive people, then,” Billy smirked. “Who’s my next target? Tell me they live somewhere expensive and sunny.”

“Like a desert?”

“No, like Marseilles.”

“Oh, Marseilles is nice,” Steve chirped distractedly. “If you like French people.”

Billy snorted, but it evolved into laughter. “What’s wrong with French people?”

“They’re French.”

“Wow. Picky.”

Steve giggled under his breath and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have a gig for you in France.”

“I’m sure I’ll managed,” Billy sighed. “What do you have?”

“Something more domestic.”

Billy exhaled through his nose, warranting a curious peek from Steve. “Yeah, that’s what I’m stuck with. One zero and domestic jobs.”

“You’ll get there,” Steve reassured. Softly. Which was...odd.

Billy’s head rolled over the back of the chair to stare at him. Steve quickly added, “If you stop breaking the shit I loan you.”

Billy looked toward the ceiling, pressing his lips into an impertinent line...

“Q.”

“Hm?” he asked while typing away.

“There’s a bird in here.”

Steve looked at him. “What?” and followed his gaze up to the metal rafters. A grey bird gazed right back at them. “Oh shit - ”

Billy already had his pistol out. One shot knocked the bird off its perch. It landed with a loud, metallic clatter.

Steve's body doubled over when Billy wrenched his arm in the direction away from the device, and not a second too soon. The force of the explosion knocked them both over one cubicle and roughly onto the concrete floor.

"Q," Billy growled when the guy scrambled to his feet and back to his desk. He reached underneath it, uncovering a baseball bat of all things, and swung right over his hard drive. Metal and plastic debris rained over the floor, and then he ran to the router standing on a low piece of furniture along the wall. He wrenched its cables out and smashed the thing too.

Then he looked up at Agent Hargrove. "We're compromised."

Billy was already moving toward the scattered carcass of the spy bird. They didn't have a lot of time. Already, another explosive rumble sounded beneath their feet, on another floor. Billy quickly found the piece he was looking for, and pocketed it before yanking Steve in the direction of the stairs.

"I need a car."

"You know where the garage is."

"You're coming with me. That thing heard both of our names."

Steve defended, "We both lost our original identities when we signed up for this bullshit."

"We don't know what we're dealing with yet," Billy reasoned. "Until then, you're safest with me."

"Well that's pathetic." His words might've landed better if they didn't rattle out of him while they did their best to sprint down several dozen flights of stairs.

"You're really sassing me right now? What are you gonna do with that bat?"

Steve ignored that to proclaim, "We need to get to my place. I have a backup computer connected to the system."

"And how do we know it's not compromised too?"

"Because it's mine. Not the system's."

Billy could only frown at him ever so briefly, but he pocketed that information away for another time. For now, they descended into the belly of their organization, where the garage of vehicles rested beneath the city. There, another argument awaited him.

"You're not taking the goddamn Camaro."

"I'm taking the goddamn Camaro," Billy retorted, already ripping the keys out of the cabinet Steve unlocked for him.

"It's loud as all hell!"

"So are you. Get in the car."

Another explosion shook the concrete columns of the garage. Steve ducked his head and coughed on the dust while he threw himself into the car a millisecond before Billy left tire tracks on the floor. "What are you doing?"

Steve was pressing buttons on the dash. Somewhere behind them, a mechanical part was moving in the car. "We don't know how many birds infiltrated the building. I'm rotating the license plates - egh!"

He collapsed against his seat when the car angled up to speed onto the city streets. Billy mused, "And what can you do for speed trap cameras?" and held up a middle finger to the camera angled over the four-way intersection.

"Nothing yet. We'll have to trade cars eventually."

"Not soon enough."

"What?" Steve all but screeched, and turned around to see behind them. "At least you're not the only stereotype in this business."

He got the words out a moment before the large, black SUV rammed into the back of the Camaro. "Put your seatbelt on."

"IT IS ON!"

Steve provided his own chorus of swears and exclamations while Billy navigated through the city, tossing his partner left and right in his seat, avoiding another collision with the SUV that would spin them out of control. When Steve began digging through the glove box and lowering his window, Billy bellowed, "What are you doing?"

"A PEN!" he yelled before throwing something behind them. A second later, the SUV's front lifted off the road so the whole thing fell onto its side.

It was Billy's turn to exclaim, "Those things explode?"

"YES THEY EXPLODE!"

"YOU NEVER TOLD ME THEY EXPLODE!"

"WHY DO YOU THINK I TOLD YOU NOT TO TAP THE PEN THREE TIMES?"

"YOU ARE SO GODDAMN LUCKY MY DICK HASN'T BEEN BLOWN OFF."

Steve pointed out the front windshield. "BILLY!"

Another SUV narrowly rammed them from the side, but Billy pulled on the brake and swung the car into a 180. Some civilian took the brunt of that particular attack, but Billy officially needed to get them the hell out of here. Whoever wanted their heads for trophies didn't care about national news.

Which was possibly the most dangerous piece of this mess. Arguably the most powerful component of a country was its press, and these assholes didn't care if they earned the media's or internet's attention.

It was another aspect in itself that Billy had ridden in one too many black SUV's. That would also account for someone's ability to install too many explosive birds in the building.

"Billy?" Steve piped when he drove down the stairs leading to the boardwalk along the river. Billy focused on the new car behind them. He looked across the river at the opposite riverbank, where the walls sloped up. He needed to get over there.

The car rattled as he sped up a flight of stairs to the street once more, but did a hard left onto the bridge that crossed the river.

Down the stairs again, this time slaloming over the ramped wall, keeping an eye on his rearview to see how tunnel-visioned the SUV behaved.

A hand gripped the wide bell of his forearm. "Billy," Steve rasped. There wasn't a stairwell at the end of this riverbank. Just a concrete wall.

Billy went up the ramp, and braked with a hard turn on the steering wheel. The SUV tried to brake in time, but the Camaro clipped the back tire, and it spun right over the side into the river.

Billy k-turned back in the direction of the stairs. He drove seamlessly into the midday, traffic, turning on his windshield wipers against the heavy drizzle. He glanced at Steve, who had not let go of his arm. At a stoplight, Billy's other hand overlapped his, earning a pale, ghostly stare.

"We need to get to the subway. Then your place."

Despite his shock, Steve nodded and said, "Two blocks down."

Billy found the station, lodged their car in a back alley between a Polish restaurant and a laundromat, and circled the car to help Steve out. "I'm fine," he said even as his knees gave out and he hung between his arms on the car door and roof.

"I see that," Billy replied. He nestled in close to wrap an arm around Steve's softer waist. "Put your weight on me."

He did, and Billy kicked the door shut behind them. "Do you have a metro card?"

"Do I have a metro card?" Billy snorted on their way to the entrance.

"You can't jump the turnstiles."

"I'm not leaving a paper trail. I don't know if my cards are compromised too. That bird sat right over your desk, pretty boy. Someone wanted a real close eye on you. Maybe even kill you. We can try and figure out who else was under surveillance later."

They did not earn approving looks from vaulting the turnstiles, but they made it to the train, and then forty minutes or so later, Steve's apartment. By then, his color had returned to his face, and Billy couldn't help but tease, "Do you always bring colleagues home?"

Steve sighed and didn't grace that with a response. He unlocked his door, and Billy perused the living room and its bay window. The place was nice. White walls. Light wooded floors. Colorful dish ware. A bedroom off to the right with an unmade bed, and a dining room to the left with an array of folders and a laptop on it.

Billy placed the broken bird piece beside the laptop. "I don't know how much you can get out of this. But it's a start."

Steve maneuvered around him and sank into the chair. "Help yourself to the kitchen."

Billy did exactly that, and only found a few hints at the neurosis of a tech genius: Steve's pantry was entirely filled with bags of chips and hot sauce. His apartment also wielded the same characteristic Steve used at work: cleanliness. There wasn't so much as a lingering cereal dish in the sink.

Billy went about scrambling some eggs, frying up some bacon, and heating up a box of leftover diner hash browns. He poured a bottle of white and brought the dishes to the table. He set the glass of wine in view of the laptop. "For your nerves. Try to eat something."

"Thanks," Steve murmured. He didn't touch his food, but Billy sat opposite him and plunged his fork into his eggs.

After he cleaned his plate, he started tapping the back of the laptop screen, causing whatever Steve was reading to bounce. As if tossed out of a reverie, Steve inhaled sharply and took his glasses off to scrub his face. Naturally, Billy chuckled and plucked up the glasses to see how the other half lived...

"Steve."

"Hmm?" he mumbled from inside his hands.

"Explain to me why your glasses are asking for 004 authentication?"

His hands lowered so he could see Billy wearing his glasses and the nearly invisible screens layered inside the glass. The muscles of his jaw ticked as he reached across the table. Billy let him remove the glasses, but his stare did not waver until Steve relented, "I'm not 004 anymore."

Billy blinked, hard, as he absorbed that. "When were you an agent?"

Steve pushed his fork around his plate. "Right as you joined."

"Am I really going to have to pull your teeth for this? Because someone must know who you are, or were. Knows enough to keep an eye on you. How many other 00s are retired into office work?"

"My whole team," he heaved. Surrendered. "It all happened too fast. I was elevated to 00 status and just as quickly flunked out of it. Then they gave me you."

Steve exhaled as if there was a whole lot more there. Then he added, "Consider this a mentorship."

Billy huffed and relaxed against his chair. "So my guardian angel is the one keeping me from my promotion."

It took a second, but Steve processed that and lifted his head. "What?"

"You. I don't get to be a 00 until a 00 gives me the okay."

Something shy of a grimace flitted across Steve's features. "Maybe you'd be one, if you learned how to say thank you. You're not god. I've saved your ass at least twice without even being in the same country as you."

"You're a P.T.S.D. case with a laptop. That's all."

"And you're a gun with childhood trauma and abandonment issues. Welcome to the fucking club. We have special glasses."

He stabbed his hash browns and started eating. Billy crossed his arms and brooded in silence.

Abandonment issues, my ass, he mused, but could not help but watch the man opposite him eat. He'd never actually seen Steve eat. He'd certainly always been available whenever Hargrove called, regardless of timezone or courtesy of sleep.

It's hypocritical to call him an angel and treat him as disposable...after you hauled him around like precious luggage.

Billy didn't like that thought one bit.

This job wasn't actually a business. It was a lifestyle. One that didn't grant angels or precious items. And the same voice that called Steve, Angel, kept whispering in Billy's mind.

Compromised.

Something moved in his periphery and he had his gun out before he even thought twice. "What the hell is that?"

Steve, to his credit, hadn't flinched. "The cartoons refer to it as a pussy cat. She wants your bacon."

The fluffy ginger that had jumped onto the table stared Billy down until he relinquished his last piece of bacon. "Why am I not surprised that you have a cat?"

"Considering your reaction, I'd say you were petrified."

"Shut up, Steve."

"No guns on the table."

Billy groaned and set the device on the console table behind him. "Yes, dear."

It was going to be a long case.

[andromedasstarship]

in the stars - chapter 2

photo credits - @ssahotchnerr

pairing - aaron hotchner x reader

warnings - canon-typical criminal minds violence, show rating 16+ for reference. depictions of violence, stalking, murder, angst, age gap couple, language 

summary - You and Aaron reunite, but it’s not exactly anything to celebrate over. The case moves forward, but you really wish it hadn’t like this.  

a/n - no one is allowed to call me out on my lack of LA/california geographical knowledge. ive also started including readers mental thought train which is italicized (flashbacks will also be in italics, but ill always properly mark a flashback). if you arent tagged but asked, just send another ask/reply! i mustve missed it on accident.

blog rules 

masterlist // read it on ao3 here

chapter 1 // chapter 3

-----

Chapter 2 

Aaron Hotchner was standing in front of you. Impeccable, not even a slight crease in his shoes and suit pressed to perfection. He still smelled faintly like cedar, a thought you quickly tried to send away; it was too late though, already remembering how pitiful it was post breakup, when you would smell the shirts he left at your house, a desperate attempt to remember that he existed in your life. You’d spent hours, days even, thinking about how you’d react if you were ever to see Aaron in person again. At the top of the list was screaming at him, really giving him a piece of your mind for leaving the way he did. Or, maybe you’d be cool and composed, the epitome of maturity and ‘I’m Totally Over You’. You’d even considered completely ignoring him, not even giving him a second glance. Instead you were frozen to the spot, staring up at the man who broke your heart. 

Pulling your eyes away from him, they darted towards the gap between his body and outside, internally debating if you’d be able to somehow sneak around him. As if he could read your mind, not like you had been particularly subtle, he moved to close the gap before you had the chance to fully formulate an escape. 

“Y/N,” he tried again, voice a bit firmer this time around. It’d be better if he couldn’t speak. But then again he had such a beautiful voice-. No, you mentally clamped down on that thought before it could lead you down another rabbit hole. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Tell you, uh, what?” You asked, hyper aware of how mousy you must’ve sounded.

“That someone was murdering women that looked like you. You should’ve called my team sooner, it was irresponsible to put yourself at further risk of-” 

“Are you trying to imply that this is somehow my fault, Agent Hotchner?” The words felt bitter on your tongue. It wasn’t like you, to suddenly be so quick to anger. Years in the spotlight had taught you to hold your tongue, but Aaron’s words managed to cut right through. 

“That’s not what I’m saying, you know that-,” he tried to interject, but you weren’t going to back down so easy. 

“I know what Agent? Please, tell me the acceptable response to this situation,” you spat out at him, finding a brief enjoyment in the way his face scrunched up ever so slightly. “The police were working on the case, I’ve dealt with weirdos before.” Aaron opened his mouth again as if to speak, but you weren’t finished, “You really think I believed you’d answer if I called?” 

His face fell at that and you felt some form of internal victory swell in your chest. Y/N 1 point, Aaron Hotchner 0. The victory was short lived though, as you came to the realization that the two of you were still in a very public setting. 

“I’m not going to fight with you Agent, I suggest you get back to your team.” With that you shoved your way past him, stomping the entire way to your car. It was a shame, the way the anger and sadness was consuming you, maybe if it hadn’t, this time you would’ve noticed the clicking coming from the tree line. 

----

Hotch wished you had been angry; it would’ve been easier to handle you if you had been screaming in his face or throwing low-blow comments his way. He could deal with anger. It’d be easier if he could pretend that you were being completely out of line and could warrant being ignored for the rest of the case. 

That wasn’t you though, and he knew this. He didn’t have to be a profiler to see and hear the way you struggled to hold yourself together. He didn’t need to be a profiler to feel how disappointed you were with him. Hotch didn’t know how to deal with this or you.  Even though it had been months, had he truly fallen so far from your graces; was your opinion so lowly of him now? 

Hotch wasn’t sure which was worse to stomach, the fact that you had such little faith in him or the deep rooted feeling in his gut that told him you were right- had you called him unannounced two months ago, he wouldn’t have picked up the phone. 

----

You sat in your car for twenty minutes, at least. It was pitiful, the way you were crying in your car, to a sad playlist, over a guy who hurt your feelings; it felt like high school all over again. In the moment, you had felt good, the way you watched Aaron’s face twist and fall at your words giving you some sick form of satisfaction. 

It’s not like you had lied to him or anything. You hadn’t even stretched the truth for ultimate impact. The whole overly formal ‘Agent’ thing was definitely on purpose though. No, you had meant every word you said to Aaron, especially about not believing he’d answer if you called. What would you have even said if you called and he did pick up? Hi Aaron, remember me? Good, anyway hope you’re doing well but I think I have a murderous stalker, can you help? Actually, that’s probably exactly how the conversation would’ve gone, but that’s beside the point. 

The point was that even if you could trust the Unit Chief of the BAU to do his job, you weren’t sure you could trust Aaron Hotchner anymore. 

----

When you finally did muster up the courage to return to the conference room, you really wished you hadn’t. You should’ve just turned your car on and left. Was it possible to ghost the FBI? You’d heard enough stories from Aaron about how their tech wizard had found people with just a single loose thread, there was definitely no way you were going to make some spy like disappearance. 

Aaron wasn’t in the room, something you were grateful for in the moment. But what you weren’t grateful for was how the team had managed to set up multiple bulletin boards in your absence; filled with your photo, crime scene photos, the dead women and your personal least favorite, the dead women’s bodies. 

Of course, you knew what was going on, you were a big girl, well old enough to understand and process the gravity of the situation. But you’d only seen photos of the women alive, with personality and humanity; something about that made them look less like you and more like them. Looking at them now- dead, eyes closed, faces tilted away from the camera- these women didn’t just look like you, they were you. 

You hadn’t even realized you were drifting closer to one of the boards until you felt a hand pull at the crook of your elbow. Turning your head ever so slightly you saw JJ, giving you one of her nice looks again. 

“Y/N, you don’t need to see these,” JJ started, already pulling you in the opposite direction. You were about to agree, head already halfway to a full nod when you noticed something from the corner of your eye. 

“Wait!” You exclaimed, pulling your arm back and getting right in front of a photo of victim #2. You very gently pulled the photo of the wall and held it closely in front of your face. Were you allowed to move it? Oh well. You felt the rest of the team’s eyes burning holes through your back so you turned to face them. “I, um, I’m pretty sure the sweater she’s wearing is mine.” You said, voice coming out as a whisper. 

The team certainly seemed to liven up at that statement. Even though they hadn’t even been in LA for a full 24 hours yet, it was obvious from the start that LAPD hadn’t been lacking on the case, rather the unsub was just that good. They reported no evidence from any dump sites,- and now those sites had been contaminated far too much to double check- there had been no witnesses for any of the abductions, and the unsub hadn’t attempted any contact with Y/N; all in all, they had nothing. 

“Y/N, are you sure?” Emily asked, she was quickly pulling photos of the other three women down, bringing them over to the roundtable. “Are the women in these photos wearing anything else you recognize?” 

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure. There’s a little hole right there, on the side, the threads were pretty loose and I got stuck on a doorknob once, ripped it right open. I couldn’t find it when I went to fix it, just assumed I threw it away and forgot.” You said quietly, moving your way to the table. Your brain wasn’t working properly, hadn’t quite yet come to the conclusion that the rest of the agents already reached. He had gotten into your house. “Oh my god.” You whispered, voice shaking. “He was in my house, wasn’t he?” 

The agents all looked down at you with sympathetic gazes before Emily finally spoke up again. “We can’t be sure just yet, but I need you to look at these photos and tell me if you recognize anything else okay? Can you do that for me?” 

You nodded, making your way over to the table and taking a seat. You were well aware one of the agents just called for Hotch, but you couldn’t be bothered with that right now. 

----

“Hotch,” Derek said, his voice urgent as he rounded the corner, interrupting whatever conversation Hotch was having with a random officer, “Y/N recognized the sweater victim #2 was wearing at the dumpsite as hers. Emily’s showing her the rest of the photos and it’s looking like the unsub left something of hers on each one.” 

That certainly got Hotch’s attention. He didn’t need Derek to fill in the blank, the unsub had been in your house. His fists tightened at his side and he couldn’t help the way his face twisted in anger. In this state, Derek knew better than to question this unusually personal reaction, instead just angling his body back towards the conference room. He didn’t even have a chance to open his mouth before Hotch brushed past him, making his way back to you. 

----

Starting with a photo of victim #1, you very slowly pulled it closer in front of you. Oh my god, her neck. Obviously, you’ve seen bruises before, been on a whole bunch of film sets that used makeup to create some pretty gory pieces, but nothing like this. The unsub didn’t just stangle these women, it was like he wanted to completely crush their throats. 

One of the agents behind you was questioning your ability to stomach this, so you quickly forced yourself to focus. It was the least you could do for these poor women, just give them your undivided attention for ten minutes, and then you could deal with everything else later.

Your finger traced over the bracelet victim #1 was wearing. “This is mine. There’s a singular heart engraved on the back of the third diamond’s plating. I bought it for myself after I got cast in my first big role, cried for weeks when I ‘lost’ it.” 

“And what about this one?” Emily asked, gently pulling victim #1’s photo away from you and replacing it with #4. You didn’t miss the way she turned the photos you’d already looked at upside down, as if to further shield you from them. Nor did you miss that she was technically skipping victim #3. 

It didn’t take you long to notice what was yours on victim #4. “It’s the dress, it’s really comfy, I used to wear it a lot, like a lot a lot. I brought it with me so often on trips I just assumed it got left in a hotel room somewhere.” 

Emily nodded, taking back that photo and turning it over as well. You could see her hesitation in showing you victim #3, but she slid it across the table to you as well. Her fingertips ghosting on the edge of the photo, ready to pull it back as soon as you gave an answer.

Victim #3 was tough. She looked the most like you, both when she was alive and certainly the way she looked now. 

You took a sharp intake of breath as you looked down at her the first thing that caught your eye was the necklace. Most certainly yours and most certainly the one that Aaron had given you for your three year anniversary. You realized it was lost a few months after the breakup and nearly tore your house apart looking for it; you didn’t have many things from your relationship with Aaron to prove he was once part of your life, making the few things you did have all the more important. “The necklace, there’s an A engraved on the back and I’m pretty sure those shoes are mine too.” Emily swept the photo back and out of view as soon as the last words left your lips. 

“JJ, get those items out of evidence immediately so we can be absolutely sure,” Hotch ordered. Aaron. You hadn’t even realized he had walked into the room, you turned to look at him, eyes wide with sadness and fear. The tears that were beginning to form tugged viciously on his heart.  “Miss L/N, my team and I are going to escort you back to your home and we’re going to need to canvas it for signs of entry and identify if anything else is missing. Is that okay?” He asked, his voice soft with something most of the members couldn’t place. 

You simply nodded at that, glad that you wouldn’t have to be alone, “Do you need my address, or will you just follow my car?” There was definitely humor in that, Aaron already knew exactly where you lived and the code to get through the gates. 

“Your address is already in our files, but for your safety we’ll be following close behind.” He assured you. The rest of the team was jumping into action, grabbing their personal belongings along with copious amounts of gloves and bags you assumed would be for potential evidence. 

As you all exited the building and entered your respective vehicles, it was Reid who realized where he’d heard that softness in Hotch’s voice before. It was the same tone he used to use with Hayley, back when things were good. 

----

Your house wasn’t far and it was a drive you knew well; grateful for the ability to somewhat distract yourself on the road. The gatesman to your development gave you a real odd look when you told him the two black SUV’s filled with FBI agents were with you, but you couldn’t care less about which neighbor he might spread that info too. Did you see? L/N brought in the FBI, wonder what she’s caught up in. At least all the neighbors and workers had signed airtight NDAs, no one was allowed to talk to any outsiders about the personal happenings of their fellow residents. 

Your house was towards the top of the hill, with a great overlook to the ocean. You had only been 20 when you bought the house and you viewed it as the ultimate achievement of all your hard work and determination. You couldn't shake the bad taste in your mouth as you pulled up the driveway. The house felt tainted now, something you were never sure you’d be able to shake. 

----

Once again, not exactly how you imagined the entire team entering your house for the first time. Your house was extensive, as were the grounds; the team quickly realized they would probably be here for the rest of the day and well into the night.

You were standing awkwardly in the middle of your foyer, unsure of how to exactly approach this situation. “So, there’s about 10 rooms in the house, not including the kitchen and general living spaces, as well with the basement which is technically one big room. I made maps once as a joke, I think I have some in the office, if you wanted those? Or we could do one big house tour and you can break off that way,” you were so rambling, but them being in your house and why they were in your house was setting in, “or you can just go off however you want-” 

“Miss L/N,” JJ said, there was that nice look again, “why don’t you show me around the house so I can get a base level understanding of everything there is. The rest of my team will go start a basic canvas of the inside and the grounds as well.” Thank you JJ. 

You nodded at this, glad that someone else was taking control of the situation. Before you could lead JJ towards the kitchen, your phone started to ring, startling you. When did you get this skittish? 

“My friend is calling,” you said, holding up your phone, “I gotta take this, I was supposed to meet him for coffee a few minutes ago.” You excused yourself, quickly making your way to an empty room away from the rest of the team. Your friend was annoyed at your more than last minute cancellation, but luckily he didn’t pry too hard and accepted your flimsy “I’m not feeling too well’ excuse on the first go. 

“I know, I’m sorry, but I promise I’ll make it up to you as soon as I feel better. Yeah, I love you too. I gotta go, bye.” As you hung up, you could feel a gaze burning into the back of your head. Turning around, you found Aaron staring down at you from the doorway. How long had he been there? 

“You should have told us about your boyfriend sooner. Trying to protect him from questioning will only-”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you exclaimed, a bit too hurriedly, “I, uh, I’m not seeing anyone at all actually, haven’t in a while.” Smooth. 

Aaron was smart enough to read through the lines and understand what you had left unsaid. His gaze didn’t give up, but you could’ve swore you saw relief somewhere in his eyes. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to say something, or if he was supposed to say something, or should you walk out, or- 

“Neither have I.” Hotch’s voice broke through your thoughts, but just as quickly as he said it, he turned on his heel and left you alone in the room.

----

a/n - if anyone is wondering ive 100% cried multiple times at how kind and supportive everyone has been with me about this story. we’re only 2 chapters in but im already sad for it to end. yes i 100% have a bunch of other wip ideas for hotch. anywaaaaaaay, replies/asks/comments/reblogs/likes always appreciated! thank you so much for reading 

Taglist: @mac99martin @iwaizumiee @kylorendrip @hqtchner @lieswithoutfairytales @ssahoodrathotchner @midsummernightdream @weasleylovers @evans-dejong @itsmytimetoodream @yoshigguk @28cnn @cuddlyklaus @hotch-meeeeeuppppp

no permission is given to republish or upload my fics anywhere else. if you see this story not on my tumblr or ao3 it is stolen work. i do not own criminal minds or any of the characters involved

[jessie-writes-things]

From the Darkness | Part 1

This is a commission from the lovely @grogusmum! I'm so so so sorry for how late this is love! Life got in the way a bit. Originally I was gonna do this as one giant piece, but you've been waiting too long and so I just needed to get something out. This ended up being a bit more soft-angst rather than fluff but I tried my best to balance it out. The next part will be full-on found family fluff though! 🥰

This whole thing stemmed from that throwaway line 'I've spent much time on Tatooine' from The Marshall. Basically, I just liked the idea of Din having a somewhat secret life hidden away there. It gets explained a bit more in the second part, but that's really all the context you need right now. 😅🥰

Pairing: Din Djarin x Neutral Reader

Words: 2.5k

Genre: Found family, fluff, soft angst

Warnings: Star Wars level violence, vague mentions of PTSD/Trauma, nightmares

Summary: Din comes home to Tattooine and you spend the night on the Razor Crest.

You always heard the Razor Crest before you saw it. The loud hum of the clunky engine made you jump every single time and you had always wondered how long it would be until the ship just dropped out the sky.

Your answer came quicker than you thought. It was around midnight when the first signs came, snippets of voices fluttered by like quiet, sleep-laced whispers on the wind.

See you we do! Coming home we are!

Then came the ship barrelling onto the landing pad, and you weren’t dramatic in saying you thought the planet was about to explode; walls rumbling, ground vibrating. Peli had been prompted to spew out a few choice words, stepping outside just as you did to watch the slivers of silver moonlight spring off the ship as it finally settled down.

The landing had been…less than graceful to say the least. The engine sounded worse than you’ve ever heard. One of her feet had been ripped clear off, making her tilt to the side at an unnerving angle and you didn’t even want to think about the number of outer plates there were to replace.

What worried you more was the look of annoyance on your boss’s face, pinched and red, and you just had enough time to convince her to head back to bed, promising to deal with The Mandalorian until morning. And thank every planet in the galaxy she listened because if the Crest hadn’t woken up the neighbourhood, you knew she sure as hell would of.

There was an etiquette, you learned through years of working on the hanger; you should never enter a person’s ship first. To regulars, it was like walking into someone’s home without being invited. But so early in the morning you weren’t for niceties.

You walked up that ramp like pray on a hunt, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and you may have stumbled a bit, but it was a hunt.

The Mandalorian was clearly waiting for you, sitting in the cockpit, the baby asleep in his pod although you had no doubt he was listening to every word.

Very out of character, he was the first to speak, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘It’s okay.’ It wasn’t…well, it was. You were just grumpy and tired and wanted to go back to bed, ‘She looks a mess.’

‘Can you fix her?’

You had assumed her mess from the work of another bounty gone wrong, maybe Mar again but you weren’t in the right mind to ask. ‘Depends.’

‘On?’

‘What you’re about to ask me to do next.’

There was a silence, a comfortable one but silence, nevertheless. Eyes heavy, you were fading fast, head resting against the passenger seat you had claimed as your own. You weren’t too sure if you had fallen asleep or not. You closed your eyes for what felt like a moment too long and when they opened again, Din had shifted his seat to look at you.

‘We need to stay for a few days.’ His head tilted like a little puppy dog. Helmet still on, you were left trying to imagine how he looked in that moment; eyes squinted, crinkled around the sides in admiration.

Not the exact words you wanted to hear, but not surprising in the slightest.

You decided to push again, ‘Anything else?’

He was smiling, at least you were sure he was, his voice sounding a little lighter despite the artificial muffle of the modulator, ‘Come to bed?’

---

I caught a frog today. Very big frog. I wanted to show you. But ManDad was not very happy with the frog in the big ship. So I ate it, I did. Miss you lots, I did. And so did ManDad. Smiles when he thinks about you, he does. I feel the happiness. Thank you for making him happy.

---

Turns out it hadn’t been Mar that took a hit at his ship.

There had been an incident, Din told you in the quiet of darkness, arms wrapped around you, his head buried safely. Long tufts of hair tickled your jaw and chin whenever he moved or talked, about due for a haircut but that was a battle for another day.

‘Moff Gideon is dead.’ But so was Kuill, the kind Ugnaught who had helped at the start of all this mess. Whatever was left of the Empire was still after the kid and Din still needed to find the Jedi. ‘Karga’s still alive.’

‘I thought he double-crossed you?’ At some point his head had moved onto your chest, letting your fingers card through his hair. You could just about see his face in the small cracks of light, not that he needed to hide anymore, sometimes you think the dark was comforting for him.

The smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips and you really hoped it was because of your touch and not the thought of the Guild agent. Small wins and all that, you guessed. Better to have Greef around than no one at all.

‘I can’t stay long.’ His voice wavered, ever so slightly. You had become accustomed to the bittersweetness of it all, stroking the back of his neck as your heavy eyes began to droop again.

‘That’s okay.’ While it felt like a brick being thrown at your chest, you understood. Truly. The entire Empire was after the kid and, subsequently, him. Not to mention the constant battle against other hunters who had it out for his head.

Because while you knew time was finite with him, at least you had something.

---

Happy to be home we are. ManDad gets lonely sometimes. Feel it I do. I try my best to make him smile but sometimes it does not work. Make him happy, you do. A man should not be lonely for too long, he must not, for loneliness can be deadly. When I am gone, look after him you must. Promise?

---

Quiet moments in the dark were always the loudest for Grogu. Like father like son, you guessed. Neither of them liked the stillness much, both of their minds racing faster than the speed of light. It was always easier to read them in these moments. Flashes of images blended into a mosaic behind your eyes as you tried to hold down a specific part of a memory or a dream.

Some nights it was easier than others. There were times Grogu would sense you in his mind and would purposefully push an image forward, always something he thought was silly like a particularly funny looking frog or a memory of Din singing to some cheesy eighties song you had left behind on a CD during their last visit.

The colourful rhythm and syncopated beats making the walls of the Razor Crest dance along with them and you did everything not to burst out laughing in the still night, biting your lip only for a small snort to escape. Din caught on, barely opening his eyes a crack to mumble out some half-arsed are you okay before rolling over and heading back to sleep again.

It was easier to read Din when he was asleep. Not that you did it much or even intended to in the first place. But sleep tore down the walls he had spent years building up, subconsciously pushing the dreams into your mind. If Grogu’s thoughts were a lulled whisper, Din’s were white noise. Fuzzy static took up most of the space, at times slipping to let through blips of voices or a grainy picture of long past memories. They were too quick to get a full idea of what he was dreaming about.

A boy.

The pop of blasters.

A woman screaming.

One deep breath and the image faded. Din would wake for a moment, eyes closed and he’d turn back to face you. His chest shook, barely and nothing noticeable normally, but you caught it, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and mumbling a soft it’s okay as he settled back into you.

---

Today was not so bad, it was not. But sometimes I still think about the dark place. Scary and lonely was I. For a long, long time. Then there’s light and I see ManDad for the first time. And then everything is better, it is! No longer do I need to fear the dark.

---

Like always, Grogu climbed out of his pod early morning and forced the doors of the sleeping pad open, giving him room to wiggle his way between Din and you. These were the times you’d feel the tug of his mind at the doors of yours, asking permission to be allowed in.

If your consciousness was awake enough, you’d let him, letting the Green Bean explore the distorted images of Earth and your past life. You would find him standing next to you, present you, in the middle of the dirtied street, dark and damp as rain pounded on the concrete around you, drowning out the screams of the people as they rushed by.

He’d hold his arms up, a quiet hold me please passing by and you’d take him in your arms, holding him close. Sparks of fear rolled through you, weighed down by dread and it was hard to tell if it was coming from Grogu or your past self.

Clouds filled the sky like grey shadows. It had taken you a long time to realise they weren’t normal, that the clouds were too big, were floating by too quick to be anything natural.

That had been the first time you saw them. Aliens. Or what people on Earth would think of as aliens. Tall, grey, slimy, the stuff you had only ever seen on TV and they were now shooting from the skies in streaks of red light. Streets pathed in dust that smelt like ash and day-old water.

The two of you walked through the mess like ghosts, people running left and right and through you, some in slow motion while some were ungodly in their speed. They all died in the end. Zapped out of existence by a singular lazar.

Someone yelled about children. Save the children. Spare the children. Collect the children. Round them up near the hanger, discard the ones we don’t need, you know the ones I mean, don’t talk back to me. Their voice washed over you in cold chills, sounding so far underwater that they might as well not be there at all.

A man stopped in front of you. Tall dressed in all black. A human man staring right at you. He didn’t look panicked like the rest, was calm and collected as he pulled out his gun and aimed so perfectly right at your head. You didn’t move, didn’t duck for cover as he pulled the trigger.

You should know better than to look.

There’s a woman behind you. Was a woman behind you. She’s dead when you turn around, a pile of smoking ash on the cobbled path, already being washed away by the rain.

Then there was the child, arms still stretched out to hold their mother’s hand, eyes wide in fear but they don’t cry. No matter how much their heart is racing. No matter how much they want to scream as the man grabs their arm and drags them away, throwing them in line with the rest of them, waiting for their turn to be scanned and thrown in the hanger.

They don’t scream, even when the doors slam shut and darkness is all that’s left.

---

Awake, are you? Sleep I cannot. Wonder if ManDad knows how much I love him, I do. ManDad is amazing he is. He saved me from the dark and keeps me safe, he does. Let’s me eat cookies, he does. Such lovely cookies. Try some, you must. But ManDad hurts, I feel. Feel his heavy heart, I do. So much pain and loss cause a man to be sad. Want him to be sad I do not. When I am gone, please tell him all the time that he is special, he is. Always be my buir, he will.

---

‘Buir.’ Grogu sat on your stomach, watching with wide, curious eyes as he followed your finger to where Din moved back and forth getting ready to head out. It was just some low-level bounty, armature work really, but that didn’t stop the anxiety from budding in the pit of your stomach. Distractions curved the nausea, curled up with the pod door open, blanket tucked under your chin with the residual warmth of his body still hugging you, ‘He’s your buir.’

Din hadn’t put his helmet back on yet, the roll of his eyes contrasted with the small half-smile on his lips. In the light, it was easier to see the damage he had taken during his last fight. There was only so much an ex-bounty-turned-nursing droid and some bacta spray could do. The large gash across his forehead looked painful and you made a mental note to check it over when he returned.

‘Don’t teach him that.’

‘Why not?’

There was a pause. You caught the way the small smile faltered, wavering with doubt and uncertainty and maybe a hint of sadness although that last part was hard to tell. And while the wall Din had built around himself was thick, sadness was strong enough to creep through the cracks. Even Grogu noticed, large ears pricking, head tilting in ManDad’s direction with a small coo.

‘Aliit ori'shya tal'din.’

‘You’ve been practicing.’ The words were light, a brow quirked in your direction and you knew what it meant; you’re adorable. Thank you for trying. At least he was smiling, finishing up the last buckle on his holster ‘Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.’

Maybe you should have been more surprised by the slip of his tongue. The way he carried on getting dressed, not even pausing once at his mistake.

You had heard him say those words before a hundrad times or more. But you wondered how long he had meant those words. Months? Years? Was it a new development? Was it something he had always known?

But there was no surprise. Instead, a warmth planted itself in your chest, and it grew, branches stretching to fill every ounce of your being until it was all you could feel.

‘Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum.’ His eyes widened at your mimicked words. The pronunciation was still a bit off and sometimes the emphasis was stressed on the wrong bits, but it was nice to know you were close enough that he understood you, ‘I know what it means now. You can’t trick me anymore.’

Din picked up the helmet and put it on before you had the chance to see the full smile that bloomed, but you heard it, the hints of pure happiness shining through the modulated, ‘I was never trying to trick you.’

You fought back your own smile. The heat spreading across your cheeks told a different story though, serving as a reminder of years old built-up emotions neither of you had time to unpack at that moment.

So, you did what you both did best. You quickly changed the topic, shifting your attention back to the Green Bean plopped on your stomach, happily teething on the small silver ball he sneakily snatched from the controls. A few seconds later and his attention found yours, giving you a gleeful smile as he held out the ball as a peace offering.

‘Ba'buir.’ You pointed back at Din and Grogu laughed, ‘He’s your Ba'buir.’

But Din was already out of sight, halfway to the door when he called back, ‘He’s older than me!’

Older, I surely am. And wiser. Yet know, you do not. Be careful ManDad For space can be dark and dangerous.

The lock hissed as it opened, seemingly louder in the suddenly quiet Razor Crest, ‘Be careful.’

‘Always.’

---

buir = parent

Aliit ori'shya tal'din = "Family is more than blood."

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum ="I love you."; literally: "I will know you forever."

Ba'buir = grandparent

[gureishi]

Hello! Hope you are well! I love the new prompt list! I was hoping to ask for Zen with “You left your mark on me” thank you so much and have a good day 🤗

Thank you for this wonderful request, my dear!

Did I take this prompt too literally? Perhaps. But boy did I GRIN the whole time i was writing about it. I really hope this brings you a lil joy today~

thirteen: left your mark on me

Zen X Reader, T, words: 1928

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He’s already long gone when you wake up. You have a vague, sleepy memory of him kissing you goodbye when it was still dark out—now, the sun pours through the window and your alarm jolts you violently from a dream.

It’s 8 am on a Sunday—in other words, a wildly inappropriate time to be awake, in your opinion. You rub your tired eyes with one balled fist. Why on earth did you even set an alarm today?

You’re yawning and considering just curling back up under the covers when you remember: the interview! Of course.

You stumble out of bed, dragging your blanket with you, and make your way into the living room. There are several shirts draped over the back of the couch; you can picture him so easily, with his languid early-morning eyes and his hair untied, trying on each shirt in turn and peering into the mirror—anxiously twisting to see himself from every angle, agonizing over the choice.

You turn on the TV and flop onto the couch, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. You check your phone: it’s only 8:05, so they should still be doing the intro.

The TV’s already on the right channel, and you smile, certain he set it that way before leaving this morning. He doesn’t always tell you how important it is to him that you watch—“Nothing would make me happier,” he says, “but I don’t want you to feel any pressure”—but you know what it means to him. And this is a big national news program, the kind millions of people will watch. He’ll be checking his phone right now, pacing in the studio, looking for a message from you.

You swipe to your first contact and send him a text. “I’m watching, babe,” you write. “Can’t wait.”

Just as you’re weighing whether or not you have time to make some coffee before he’s on, you hear his name; as usual, and even after all this time, your stomach does a little somersault.

He strides on screen, positively resplendent in a corduroy double-breasted blazer (good choice, you think), his hair tossed over his shoulder, glistening under the studio lights. He reaches for the host’s hand and shakes it gently. He’s got it down, you think: the amiable manner, the cool handshake, the half-smile.

The host makes a joke and he laughs lightheartedly, tossing his head back in way that’s somehow as natural as it is artful. And that’s when you see it.

Your mouth falls open. You shoot up off the couch, automatically moving closer to the screen for a better look. You rub your eyes; try rubbing the spot on the TV screen, too. But it’s undeniable

There is, without a doubt, a small, circular bruise on the side of his neck—just the size and shape of your mouth.

You lift a shaking hand to your face. No way. NO WAY.

You fall back onto the couch; he’s saying something now, answering a question about his transition from stage to film, but you barely hear him. If he was anyone else, this would be meaningless—he’s an adult living with his partner, after all, and there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about a little love bite. But he’s him. And he’s on national TV.

Your phone is already buzzing. Nervously, you swipe away the new notifications and return to your thread with him.

“Zen,” you text him. And again. “Zen. Zen. Zen.”

He doesn’t answer, of course; on screen, he’s grinning, nodding as the host makes a comment about his last movie. Reluctantly, you swipe back to your notifications.

There are several text from his publicist, of course. The first one says “Are you serious?!” and the second says “How did you let this happen?” You don’t look at the third or fourth.

There are texts from his agent and her assistant, too. His agent’s text just says “Why????” and her assistant has followed up with a longer and more formally-worded message.

You groan. This is tricky territory: as his manager, it’s at least partly your responsibility to keep him from going on TV with a freaking hickey on his neck. And as his partner, it’s certainly up to you to not bite him.

You set your phone down, deciding to give everyone a few minutes to calm down before you answer. What can you even say? You honestly have no memory of leaving the bruise on his neck, but you imagine (blushing a little) that it must have happened the previous night, or you would’ve noticed sooner. If you’d just woken up when he was leaving this morning, maybe you would have seen it, would have warned him…?

Your phone is still buzzing and you glance down at it, hoping—inexplicably—that it’s him, though you can see clearly that he’s still live on air. It’s his publicist again.

“Check twitter,” she says. Oh no.

With a mixture of dread and an almost masochistic fascination, you open the twitter app. You’re already following his hashtag, of course, and—oh no—you see his name again and again on your feed.

You scan the top tweets, your heart thudding hollowly in your chest. The tone is generally amused—“Zen on tv with giant hickey lolololol”—but still, you’re horrified. He’s trending.

Begrudgingly, you start to answer the texts from his team. No, you didn’t notice it; yes, you would have told him if you had; no, you haven’t heard from him yet—he’s literally still on live TV.

You try to focus on the interview. He’s talking about his new movie now, gesturing with those long, beautiful hands. If you squint, you can’t really see the mark on his neck, and you wonder if it’s really that noticeable. Based on your twitter feed: yes.

He’s standing now, shaking the host’s hand again, and the studio audience is clapping, and oh, you’re so relieved it’s over. You twist the blanket nervously between your fingers as the screen goes to a commercial. You mute it, let your eyes drift shut. Maybe this was all a dream.

Your phone buzzing again startles you—not a dream. It’s him, calling you mere seconds after stepping off camera, and you answer right away, nervous fingers slipping over your phone screen.

“Hi, babe!” he chirps, full of energy. It’s his just-got-off-stage voice.

You hate to burst his bubble, but: “Did you, by any chance, look at your texts, hun?” you ask him.

“Nope! I wanted to call you right away! How was it? How was I?”

“Zen…” It’s not like him to be so oblivious; is it possible that, nervous as he was this morning, he really just didn’t notice? “Um, you didn’t happen to…that is, the makeup artist didn’t say anything to you, did they?”

“Makeup artist?” He hums in confusion. He’s going to make you say it.

“There’s a huge hickey on your neck and everyone is talking about it,” you blurt out in one breath. He pauses and you think he’s going to react with surprise, shock, concern.

Instead, he laughs. Laughs.

“You saw it, huh?” He’s talking quietly, probably now in the dressing room, but there’s no anxiety in his voice. He sounds almost…pleased.

“Yes, baby. Everyone saw it.”

He’s still laughing, a kind of satisfied chuckle.. “Good,” he says.

You don’t know what to do with him. You feel your phone continuing to buzz even as you’re talking to him—it’s got to be the publicist, the agent, all the assistants.

“So just so we’re clear,” you say slowly. “You knew it was there and you intentionally didn’t try to cover it.”

“Yep!” You hear people chattering behind him; you can picture him smiling to himself as he strolls through the dressing room, packed with people, colorful and chaotic. Inexplicably, in the midst of all this, he sounds so very calm.

“Babe, everyone on the internet is panicking. Your publicist is panicking. You know she wants you to be more private, wants you to stop, like…throwing my name around in interviews.”

“I never said your name,” he says proudly.

“Zen…”

“Listen,” he says, his voice taking on a more serious tone. He’s practically whispering now; you suppose he’s hidden himself away in a back corner of the dressing room to talk to you. “I know how my publicist feels, and I don’t want to upset her or anything. But I can’t stand it anymore.”

That’s a private voice, a “just us” voice—one you’re used to hearing murmured into your shoulder as he lays in bed beside you at night.

“Can’t stand what?” You don’t know why, but now you’re whispering, too.

“All this secrecy,” he says. “Babe, I want to…I want to run through the streets shouting about you. I want to tell everyone in the world how desperately I adore you.”

You can’t help it: you smile. 

“You just want to break the rules,” you tease, and he laughs again, more quietly.

“No,” he says. “I just want to make sure everyone knows who I belong to.”

“Babe…” You know you should argue; you’re his manager, for god’s sake. You should scold him, apologize for leaving the mark in the first place, make him promise not to pull something like this again. But you don’t have it in you.

“I’ll take the blame,” he says. “I’ll tell my publicist and my agent and anyone else who asks that it was just a silly mistake, that I didn’t even notice it. I’ll tell them whatever I have to, and it’ll blow over. But I just…I needed to do this. Do you understand?”

And you do. How could you not?

Much as you’d like to, you can’t deny the twinge you feel in your gut when interviewers ask him about his on-screen chemistry with some glamorous co-star or other and he has to laugh and smile politely and give them a vague response; you can’t deny, either, the sinking feeling you get when you read speculations online about whether he looked at so-and-so for a moment too long in whatever behind-the-scenes footage. It makes you want to scream.

But this…

Today, a huge percentage of the country saw him live with the imprint of your teeth on his skin. And they can wonder and deliberate about who gave him that mark all they want; it doesn’t matter, because you know. You were the one who grazed his sensitive skin with your teeth, making him squirm, moaning your name.

“I do,” you tell him. “And you did look very cute.

“Just cute?” he whines.

“Beautiful, and charming, and clever, and captivating. As always.”

“If you say so.” You can hear the kind of face he’s making—soft smile, eyes sparkling. “And don’t worry about twitter or whatever, darling. What’s that saying? Any press is good press.”

He’s not wrong, you think—trending on twitter can only help him, in the long run; his publicist will come around sometime tomorrow when she sees the inevitable bump in ad revenue. It’s not like he’s caused any harm.

Suddenly, you want to see him. You want to throw yourself against his chest and feel those long fingers on the exposed skin at the back of your neck.

“When will you be home?” you ask him.

“Maybe an hour. You need something, babe?”

You clutch your phone with buzzing fingers, anticipation pooling in the pit of your stomach. “Yes,” you say. “You.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!

@currentlyprocrastinating @thesirenwashere  @ultrasupernini @cro0kedme @otomefoxystar @dawn-skies06 @nad-zeta @hunterelys

[i-like-plan-m]

Could you do a modern au with famous parents Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji and baby a-yuan being adorable and being loved by their fans?

this was fun, thank you! [Posted to Ao3]

The video was short and packed with Wei Ying’s rapid-fire chatter, a response to his recent fan-selected award after a landslide of votes had catapulted him to the top of a long list of very accomplished actors. He’d spent the last hour trading off between screaming into a pillow and wandering around in dazed disbelief until Wen Qing, acting in her capacity as his agent, had bullied him into making a quick thank you video.

Wei Ying kept it quick and crammed as much of his gratitude and excitement into it as he could, though he was careful to keep the screen confined to the office space Lan Zhan had designed for him. It was a live video, since that seemed to be what fans preferred these days, so he angled the camera carefully away from anything incriminating.

And by incriminating he meant “any sign that Wei Ying had a life outside of acting.”

The door was closed, and the room held no identifying pictures or objects. Wei Ying had come to treasure his privacy, and was fierce about protecting the details of his personal life out of the hands of his thousands of fans. Enough that no one outside of their families even knew they were friends, much less married with a son.

Lan Zhan, of course, hated the riot of noise and flashing lights that accompanied Wei Ying anywhere in public. As one of the foremost violinists in this hemisphere, he had his own level of fame, but his fans were less likely to screech like a banshee upon seeing him. And they had A-Yuan to protect now, and keeping him out of the spotlight was the safest way to do so.

His oversight was not locking the door. A rookie parenting mistake.

A-Yuan burst through the door like the Kool-Aid Man about ten seconds into Wei Ying’s final thank you speech, his damp hair sticking up in downy tufts and his little body swamped by one of Wei Ying’s softest threadbare t-shirts.

“Baba!” He shouted at the top of his tiny but incredibly powerful lungs. “There’s a bird in the house!”

Wei Ying watched the dismay cross his face in real time on the phone screen, followed by alarm when his son’s words finally registered. “There’s a what in the house?” He asked as he whipped his head around, the live stream momentarily forgotten.

“A bird!” A-Yuan said excitedly, hopping over to him when the shirt got tangled around his feet. Wei Ying scooped him up before he tumbled face-first to the floor. His son gripped his shirt and leaned in until their noses were nearly touching, eyes wide and bright over the commotion. “Can we keep it?”

There was an angry shriek from the kitchen that suggested the bird would not appreciate such an invitation.

“Where is your dad?” Wei Ying asked instead of answering, phone shoved hastily into his pocket when a crash sounded in the house.

“He’s hiding Popcorn and Jelly Bean,” A-Yuan reported. Wei Ying’s smile was fond; of course Lan Zhan would stash the bunnies safely away. “He told me to wait for him, but I didn’t want you to be scared! It’s okay to be scared, though,” he said earnestly, his little face solemn and so reminiscent of Lan Zhan that Wei Ying had to stop and shower kisses all over his face.

“When’d you get to be so smart, huh?” Wei Ying asked when A-Yuan was breathless with laughter and squirming so much he nearly dropped him.

“Baba,” he complained, flopping over his shoulder with a huff. “That’s what you said.”

“Ha! Of course you’re smart, then, if you’re learning from me!”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s low voice had him turning and tightening his grip on A-Yuan when he wriggled happily at the sight of his other father.

“I hear we have an intruder,” Wei Ying said, grinning widely at his husband.

Exasperation crossed Lan Zhan’s face. “It flew in by mistake,” he said, but then he glanced at A-Yuan with a wry smile.

“By mistake, huh?” Wei Ying bounced his son in his arms, grinning when A-Yuan giggled and fisted his hands in his shirt to cling to for balance. “And what, pray tell, were you doing when this bird wandered into our home?”

A-Yuan blinked big, dark eyes at him with utter innocence. “Playing!”

“Mhm. And what were you playing?” Wei Ying leaned cautiously around the corner to peer into the kitchen, wincing when the unfortunately large bird spotted him and screeched furiously.

“Um.” A-Yuan thought for a moment. “The bunnies wanted to see outside.”

“Did they?” Wei Ying asked, trading a glance with Lan Zhan, who then scowled at the bird now stabbing its beak angrily at the plants on top of the cabinets.

A-Yuan nodded seriously. “Yes, they told me.”

“So you took the bunnies onto the balcony?” Wei Ying prompted.

“They aren’t allowed outside unless someone is with them,” A-Yuan repeated, which, okay, at least he remembered some of the rules. They’d have to work on ensuring he understood the rules were for him, not their fuzzy little pets. “I carried Jellybean outside so she could see the clouds! One looked like a dinosaur, baba. She wanted to see.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” He had a good idea of what had happened here. The ‘not going outside without someone to watch you’ rule had somehow been transferred into ‘you can go outside alone as long as you’re watching the bunnies,’ because that was the logic of a four year old.

“And then the bird?” Lan Zhan asked, clearly also aware of the chain of events that had led to them cowering in the hallway as a baffled and irate bird rushed around their kitchen in a destructive-sounding temper tantrum.

A-Yuan cuddled closer to Wei Ying as though sensing an impending punishment. Wei Ying rolled his eyes; Lan Zhan would fold in a heartbeat under that big-eyed stare, and it would be left to Wei Ying to remind them both why humans under three feet tall weren’t allowed on the balcony alone.

“The bird wanted to play with Jellybean,” A-Yuan said. Wei Ying’s jaw dropped.

“The bird wanted to play with Jellybean,” Lan Zhan repeated slowly.

“Yes! It flew down super fast! And it landed right beside me! Then we went inside, because Popcorn was all alone, and the bird came inside to see him too!”

“Okay,” Wei Ying said in a strangled voice, and it took a heroic effort to keep the laughter at bay. “A-Yuan, why don’t you go check on the bunnies, okay? We’re going to go help the bird get back home.”

A-Yuan craned his neck around to peer into the kitchen. “It sounds pretty mad,” he said doubtfully.

“We will talk to it,” Lan Zhan assured him, and they waited until A-Yuan had scampered out of sight to stare at each other with wide eyes.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Lan Zhan pinched the bridge of his nose. “The bunnies were almost eaten.”

“Our son was almost traumatized for life,” Wei Ying said, choking on a laugh. “Lan Zhan, he almost witnessed a double homicide on our own balcony.” He wheezed with laughter, clutching his ribs.

“We will install higher locks,” Lan Zhan said grimly.

“Either that or buy a baby backpack leash,” Wei Ying agreed, and grinned widely at Lan Zhan’s sigh. “I’m just saying, the kid is going to keep on growing. He’s too smart for his own good, too.”

“What do we do about the bird?” Lan Zhan asked, absently stroking a hand along Wei Ying’s spine when he leaned against his side.

“Hell if I know. Maybe Wen Ning will know what to do. He knows things like this, right?”

“He is a vet,” Lan Zhan said dryly. “I should hope so.”

“I’ll call him,” Wei Ying decided. “We should probably feed him while he’s over here. As payment, you know. Not many friends would come wrestle with a wild bird on a Friday night for us.”

“I think the bird would object if I tried to cook,” Lan Zhan said, surly. He made a sound of distress. “Wei Ying, it’s in the pantry.”

“It’s deciding what it wants for dinner, Lan Zhan. Better pay attention or it’ll go for the bunnies again!” Lan Zhan looked at him, appalled, and he couldn’t bite back the tide of laughter.

“Ridiculous,” Lan Zhan muttered.

“You married me,” Wei Ying pointed out. “No take backs.”

Lan Zhan softened like he did every time Wei Ying brought up their marriage. Pressed a kiss to his forehead and agreed, “No take backs.”

And then a moment later— “But leave the bunnies out of this.”

His Lan Zhan was so soft hearted, Wei Ying thought, so full of love he could burst.

“Yeah, yeah, I know where I rank,” Wei Ying said, entirely teasing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, still grinning up at Lan Zhan as his husband gave an exasperated sigh.

The grin fell right off his face at the sight of his phone screen, which was open. And recording. And so full with rapid-fire comments that the actual video screen was barely visible.

“Oh no,” he said. “Oh no. Lan Zhan.”

“What’s wrong?” Lan Zhan asked, glancing worriedly at him and then down to the screen when Wei Ying couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

Wei Ying looked up slowly, so guilty he felt sick with it. “It’s been recording this whole time,” he whispered.

He must have looked really bad, because Lan Zhan ignored the phone entirely and pulled him close, holding one of Wei Ying’s palms flat against his chest and breathing slowly and deliberately until he matched his own breathing to Lan Zhan’s. The familiar routine soothed the edges of anxiety that were rapidly blooming into a panic attack, and he swallowed hard and dropped his forehead against Lan Zhan’s shoulder until he could think straight.

“I’m—“

“No apologies,” Lan Zhan reminded him in a murmur so low against his ear that the phone couldn’t have picked it up. “It was an accident. We knew this wouldn’t last forever, and I’m not ashamed of you or A-Yuan. It’s okay  Wei Ying.”

“But I fucked up,” Wei Ying mumbled into his neck, clinging like A-Yuan after a bad dream.

“You had an intruder to welcome,” Lan Zhan said, amused. Wei Ying risked a glance up and found that Lan Zhan was smiling, not even a hint of worry on his face.

“Might as well run with it, I guess,” he said with a hesitant smile.

Lan Zhan pressed a kiss to his hair. “Might as well.”

Wei Ying smiled for real now, bright and unrestrained as he lifted the camera away from the floor. “Uh. Hi, everyone! Wow, there are a lot of you. Lan Zhan, this is like, triple the people who were watching it at the beginning. I think I’m offended.”

“Wei Ying.”

“Right, right. So… surprise!” He laughed at a few of the comments, and then they winced in tandem at the loud bang and squawk from the kitchen. “There’s another surprise for all of us tonight, it seems. Look who showed up and just let herself right in!” He flipped the camera around just in time to catch the bird’s beady eyes glaring at them from atop the fridge.

“Can you believe this?” Wei Ying slipped into his usual stream-of-consciousness chatter, free hand tucked into Lan Zhan’s as the pitter patter of little feet trotted down the hall towards them, announcing A-Yuan’s return.

He segued into talking about his husband and son, hesitant at first from years of absolute silence on the topic. Half an hour, a miraculously unscathed Wen Ning and a freed bird later, Wei Ying ended the video and set his phone aside, feeling a little wrung out from the evening’s events.

His phone buzzed. “Jiang Cheng wants to know why we’re trending on twitter. Ha! Get a bird stuck in your house and maybe you’ll become a twitter sensation, A-Cheng!”

He glanced over at A-Yuan, who had his face pressed to the glass door to the balcony in a futile search for the bird. “Time for that talk?” He asked, nudging Lan Zhan with a pointed nod.

Lan Zhan looked shifty. “The bunnies weren’t actually hurt.”

“So… a lecture about the dangers of balconies, but not about the bunny jailbreak and near-execution?”

“That seems fair.”

Fair. Yeah, right. Lan Zhan just couldn’t handle a few distraught tears from their child who absolutely realized this weakness and happily exploited it. “You realize we’re a couple of suckers, right?”

Lan Zhan shrugged. “I’m okay with it.”

Yeah, Wei Ying thought, giving in with a sigh. So was he.

[refinedbuffoonery]

Flawless (6)

masterlist.

Content Warning: swearing, violence, sex, PTSD

Not gonna lie, this is a bit of a filler chapter. But the NEXT chapter...that’s the one you’ve all been waiting for. Also, I’ve had “bad guy” by Billie Eilish stuck in my head for DAYS, so that’s the song playing during the runway show. 

*****

A week after the job at the director’s house, Riley sank into her first-class airplane seat and immediately opened her laptop, the tan pleather chair squeaking slightly as she crossed her legs beneath her. Dimming the brightness, Riley angled her laptop so no one could see it but her. She’d been profiled plenty of times in the past while writing perfectly benevolent code. Riley certainly didn’t need anyone catching her working on something more nefarious. 

If she did this right, then she’d be able to just connect her phone to whatever Louvre computer that controlled security and be free to do whatever she wanted. 

If she didn’t...she’d need to brush up on her French. 

Nikki dozed in the seat beside her. She’d been bouncing off the walls all morning in anticipation of getting to see Fashion Week in person after Riley had promised to go with her to as many fashion shows as they could sneak into. Nikki’s excitement was infectious. While the priority was to see the runway show of the designer whose Louvre afterparty they were crashing, before they boarded the flight, Riley found herself sifting through fashion blogs to determine which other shows she wanted to see. All couture, of course. 

Across the aisle, Jill had her nose buried in an incredibly thick book Riley couldn’t see the cover of, and behind her, Cage and Desi curled together like a human pretzel as they watched a movie. They were disgustingly happy, and that made Riley happy too. 

When they were somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic, Nikki awoke, grumbling, “You’re going to ruin your eyes if you stare at that screen any longer.” She was right. Riley’s vision had started to blur at the edges hours ago, and she knew she’d have a hard time focusing on things in the distance when she finally looked up. Riley saved her work and shut her laptop. 

Nikki still hadn’t budged from her awkward curled position, but her eyes were open. Riley figured now was as good of a time as any to make Nikki answer her last lingering question. “So you still haven’t told me why you and your boyfriend broke up,” she probed. “You know, the one who hacks everything else.” 

Nikki sighed, rolling her head to glare at Riley. “Do I have to tell you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Fine.” Nikki sat up. “When we met, he told me he worked for a government think tank. Really nerdy stuff, does a lot of consulting. I figured he was smart but harmless.” 

“I remember.” 

“That was a lie. He’s a government agent, all right. But not the nerd kind. The double-O-seven kind.” 

Riley nearly choked. “A spy?” she hissed. “You dated a fucking spy?” 

“Surprise.” 

“How did you find out?” 

“The same way he found out about me. I originally told him I was a freelance art appraiser”—not far from the truth, actually— “and the IT job was to help make ends meet. We both bought each others’ lies at first, but over time we both struggled to keep our stories straight. And then one day it all just...fell into place, I guess. We had a massive fight, and by the time the dust settled, I think we both knew there was no going back to how things were before we knew the truth.” 

Riley laced her fingers through Nikki’s, conveying her empathy through touch rather than words. “What agency does he work for?” 

“The Phoenix Foundation.” 

“What the fuck is that?” 

“It’s DXS. The name changed while you were gone.” At least Nikki couldn’t still say the P-word either. But DXS...DXS could move Christmas. If Nikki’s boyfriend told anyone about her real job, they were all in trouble. Big trouble. 

“Think he’s going to come after you? Come after us?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Trying to lighten the mood, Riley said, “Ignoring the part where he knows you’re a criminal, it must’ve been pretty cool to date a real-life black-ops spy. I bet he knew all kinds of tricks.” The innuendo easily rolled off Riley’s tongue. 

Nikki smacked her shoulder. “We were having a nice moment and you had to go and ruin it by being gross. What the fuck, dude?” 

Riley rolled her eyes. “Love you too.” And she did. Despite the grudge she may or may not be holding, Riley loved her. She never stopped.

*****

They landed in Paris at night, and the Five Eyes crashed the moment they made it to their swanky, overpriced hotel room. The next day, they bounced around the city attending as many runway shows as traffic allowed. Riley didn’t understand the hubbub and overdone romanticism; Paris was just like any other major city—loud and overcrowded. And snobby. So very snobby. 

On their second day in Paris, the women chose to divide and conquer. Desi, Cage, and Jill teamed up to scope out the Louvre. Riley and Nikki attended the runway show of the designer whose masterpiece they intended to steal. 

As she and Nikki found their seats along the runway, Riley made a mental note of all the exits. Their seats were in the back, against a wall. Nikki hoped for a better view, but Riley liked it better this way. Sitting by a wall, she had something solid behind her and could see everyone come and go without having to turn around. Riley had always kept meticulous tabs on her surroundings—that’s what made her so good at her job—but the fear of not being able to see what’s coming was new. 

She didn’t tell Nikki about it. 

The blonde blended right in with the highly fashionable crowd, wearing a floor-length, gray plaid coat with hot pink lining. Nikki was completely in her element here, and sometimes Riley thought her friend would’ve been better off legitimately pursuing a career in fashion rather than letting Riley drag her into the world of shadows, secrets, and cons. 

While they waited, Riley fidgeted with a button on her black blazer. Her whole outfit was the same shade of her signature color—blouse, blazer, leather leggings. But her boots were the real showstopper—thigh-high black suede with intricate gold embroidery down the entire front. Riley saw them in a window yesterday and had immediately gone inside to purchase them. The boots were outrageously expensive, but it didn’t matter. Riley Davis was already a filthy rich woman, and after this job, she’d have more money than she would ever know what to do with. 

The house music quieted, and the designer—older man, favored his left leg, voice thin and raspy like a smoker—strutted down the runway, microphone in hand, welcoming the audience and beginning the show. He rambled on, ruminating over his inspiration for this collection. Nikki hung on every word. Riley tuned him out. 

So this was the man who was renting out the Louvre. Riley couldn’t even imagine the amount of money and favors it took to secure such an ostentatious party venue. 

What she could imagine, however, was that she’d surely be subjected to yet another one of these long-winded speeches at the afterparty tonight. On the bright side, that would buy her and her team extra time, making the job that much easier. 

The show began with a sweep of the lights as the music dropped to a low, pulsing beat Riley could feel just as much as she could hear. The crowd murmured respectfully as the first model appeared wearing a shiny black gown that looked like a trash bag had been melted to her body with the excess pooling on the floor. She told Nikki as much, earning an eye roll. 

The next gown was better—sheer fabric with countless thin, metallic gold vertical stripes. The skirt had pretty lines, giving the model the illusion of curves she didn’t have. After that was a strapless canary yellow ball gown with a full, pillowy train. 

“I don’t understand why designers keep making yellow clothes,” Riley hissed. “No one looks good in yellow.” 

“That model does.” 

“No one looks good in yellow.” 

Nikki twisted in her seat and glared, which Riley ignored. “Are you going to say anything nice?” 

“You’d miss my commentary if I stopped.” Riley’s snide comment earned her an elbow to the ribs, but she caught Nikki’s smile all the same. 

The next gown was cherry red satin, with huge ruffles on one shoulder and the opposite hip. The extra fabric was a lot, but there was something elegant about the gown nonetheless. 

Leanna would look good in that one, Riley stopped herself from saying aloud. Nikki—nor anyone else, for that matter—hadn’t said another word about Leanna since Riley first asked weeks ago. Suddenly their longtime friend was taboo, and Riley didn’t want to disrupt the tentative peace she had with Nikki just to push for answers she probably wouldn’t get. 

Another ugly gown, this one feathery pink with a sort of netting over top. 

But the last one...the last one caught the eye of every single person in the audience. 

Including Riley. 

The sheer dress was covered in intricate silver beading that accentuated its long sleeves and mermaid silhouette and left little to the imagination. It was the kind of show-stopping gown one wore when they wanted to be the center of attention. 

Despite the audience’s rising hum of approval, Riley still heard Nikki murmur, “That one is all you.” And it was. Riley would wear that gown in a heartbeat if she had the opportunity—too bad most jobs required her to blend in, not stand out. 

She was too busy lusting after the gown to respond. 

From her seat, Riley could just see into the wings, and she spotted who could only be the designer’s assistant, running the show behind the scenes. Even from a distance, Riley had a feeling the young woman’s hawk-like gaze missed absolutely nothing. The designer would be easy enough to bamboozle during the heist, but this woman could very likely become a problem. 

Riley committed the assistant’s appearance to memory and set the thought aside for later.

*****

Later that afternoon, the Five Eyes reconvened in their hotel suite. They still had a couple hours until they needed to get ready for the afterparty. Since only Cage and Nikki had been there before, Desi, Cage, and Jill had spent the day scouting the Louvre. It was good for Jill to work with Desi for a change; because of her military background, Desi’s way of thinking through a job diverged greatly from everyone else’s. 

Team meetings like this were one of Riley’s favorite parts of the job—swapping intel and strategizing the best way to pull off the job. Or the most fun way, which was usually also the riskiest. But tonight, the team was in unspoken agreement that they would play it safe, both because of Jill and the importance of this long-awaited job. 

Piled onto one plush, king-sized bed, the five women sat tangled together as they tore through the box of pastries Riley purchased on the way back to the hotel. For the first time in forever, Riley was hungry. She avoided dwelling on that fact as she licked her fingers and picked up stray crumbs that fell on the off-white comforter. 

“So, what did you learn?” Nikki quizzed Jill. 

Jill pushed up her glasses with her middle finger, speaking with her mouth full. “The room the party will be in is super fancy and at the far corner of the building.” She swallowed. “First floor.” 

“Good. What else?” Riley prompted. “How do Nikki or I get to security and the building’s system control?” 

“There’s an employee door in the hallway…” Jill trailed off. “Wait. This is a test, isn’t it? You already know.” 

Riley smirked. “I do.” 

Disbelief etched Jill’s face. “How? You told me yourself that you’ve never been there!” 

“I have my ways.” Riley would tell her eventually, but for now, it was more fun to lure trade secrets over Jill’s head. She reached for another buttery pastry, selecting one topped with slivered almonds.  

But before Riley could continue her taunting, Desi spoke up. “There’s something you should know.” The mood plummeted into seriousness. 

Riley and Nikki both raised their eyebrows. Go on. 

“Nikki’s ex was at the museum.” 

“Which one?” Nikki asked cautiously. Riley could hear the dread in her tone, the same dread that churned in her own stomach. 

“You know which one.” 

Riley swore. Nikki’s ex, the spy, was at the Louvre. “Did he see you?”

Cage answered, “We have to assume he did. And we also have to assume he recognized Desi and me as Nikki’s friends.” Riley set her pastry down, no longer hungry as the heist of her dreams started to crumble before her eyes. She refused to let that happen. 

“He was with a middle-aged man who definitely had a gun tucked into his belt,” Desi said. “Based on that and his haircut, I’d say he’s probably ex-military.” 

“Mac is too.” Tucking her knees to her chest, Nikki’s voice was uncharacteristically small as she spoke. Defeat wormed its way across her features. Nikki thought they couldn’t pull off the job now, Riley realized. 

No way. She wouldn’t let one stupid ex-boyfriend get in the way of her dream job. And her grossly large payday. 

“It’ll be fine,” Riley reassured. “He knows you’re into fashion, right?” Nikki nodded. “Then he has to assume you’re there for innocent, legitimate reasons. Innocent until proven guilty, remember? All we have to do is avoid looking suspicious, which we already do anyway. He won’t have any evidence to pin it on us besides a hunch, and even if he shares that hunch, he’ll get in trouble for not disclosing information about you and your relationship sooner.” 

Jill said, “That seems overly optimistic.” 

“Which one of us is the expert?” Riley snapped. Jill flinched, and the other three watched Riley warily. “Sorry,” she grumbled. 

The tension only somewhat dissipated. 

“Anyway,” Riley redirected. “We picked up the replicas.” She gestured to Nikki’s Balenciaga bag sitting open on a nearby chair. 

“Replicas?” Riley fought the urge to sigh at Jill and her constant questions. 

“What did you think we were going to do? Just take the jewelry and run like hell?” 

Jill’s silence was a resounding yes. 

“Pickpocketing 101. What did I tell you?” 

Understanding dawned in Jill’s wide, blue eyes. “When you steal something heavy, put something else in its place.” A pause. “We’re going to replace the jewelry with fakes so no one even realizes the real set is missing.” 

It was Cage’s turn to smirk. “She’s catching on.” The blonde leaned in. “So, can we see them?” 

Nikki was off the bed in an instant, retrieving a package wrapped in plain brown paper from her purse. She let Cage have the honor of unwrapping it and revealing the masterfully crafted jewels. 

The faux-sapphire and diamond necklace and earrings were stunning. And exact replicas of the real set. The only difference was a tiny, insignificant bump Nikki’s jeweler added to the back of each piece so they could quickly tell the difference between the replicas and the real deal. 

Desi whistled. “Damn. Those are stunning.” Beside her, Cage nodded appreciatively. “You would look so hot wearing those,” Desi murmured to her girlfriend. “Wearing only those.” 

Blushing furiously, Cage shoved her girlfriend off the bed. 

Riley knew that if she let them, her friends would spend hours examining the jewels. Clearing her throat to get everyone’s attention, she asked, “Everyone clear on the plan?” 

The four other women nodded in turn, first Desi, then Nikki, then Cage, and finally Jill. 

“Good.” 

“That’s it?” Jill questioned. “No team pep talk?” The other women chuckled, but Riley just rolled her eyes. 

“That one,” Desi pointed at Riley, “is the wrong person to ask for a pep talk.” 

Riley’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “Hey! Speak for yourself.” Desi shrugged. Directing her attention back to Jill, “You really want a pep talk?” 

Jill blinked. 

“Don’t fuck this up.”

~ Tag List ~ Want to be added? Send me an ask. 

@macrileyedits​ / @hellishrose​ / @incorret-macgyver-quotes​ / @mylifequotesshowallofthem​ / @thecarrieonokay

[maxwell-grant]

You are your top 5 Shadow agents

I don’t talk about the Agents as much as I should, even though I constantly try to stress their importance, because I’m working on essays for them individually. To be honest, I think about the Agents practically every day to the point I have a hard time separating my headcanons from the actual canon material, but I have to stay true to it, and the lack of material regarding them means that the only way I can truly talk about their characterization is by diving deep into the novels and taking notes, which I don’t have much time to do, and then finding the right books or moments to talk about, which is even more difficult. 

This by no means constitutes my big thinkpiece on them, but it’s a start, and ultimately narrowing it down was a lot harder than I expected. This order is by no means final, if you asked me this question next week or next month I’d probably have a different answer, but it’s the 5 that I find myself thinking on the most. 

Honorable mentions: Jericho Druke and Myra Reldon, who are incredibly awesome characters conceptually and who have great moments each, and whom I definitely think deserve big turns on the spotlight if the Agents ever get put on the spotlight again, but are held back by issues with their presentation and lack of prominence. Margo Lane, whom only just narrowly missed the cut because, as much as I like her and think she gets an underseved bad rep and definitely has great things going for her, I sadly have to concede isn’t as consistently great or well-written as she should be. Clyde Burke, whom I definitely like a lot based on what I’ve read and consider an integral part of the line-up, but haven’t read enough of the novels he’s in to really solidify him as one of my favorites just yet. And Slade Farrow, who is a bit too complicated to talk about superficially.

Allright, so here they are

Number 5: Burbank

As the center of all communications within The Shadow’s network and the only character in the series who is even more mysterious and elusive than The Shadow himself, Burbank is fascinating and the kind of character who simultaneously seems to be both begging for an in-depth exploration and yet who also should be dead last on the list of mysteries about the series we want spoiled, because nobody wants the mystery ruined. He’s a bit of cipher personality-wise compared to the other agents, but he kind of has to be, and I think it helps to illustrate the many forms the agents of The Shadow can and should take, that one of them is this total mystery whom we know nothing about and yet is so vital to the whole thing. And it’s interesting also because, for all the many variations we’ve had on The Shadow’s life and thoughts and feelings and etc over the years, Burbank has stayed more or less the same. Whatever variations he’s had in design aside, Burbank just is. 

The pulps did often have moments where we would get to see moments that told us a little more about Burbank, gestures he did, capabilities he had and didn’t have, little details Gibson would sprinkle in to keep people fascinated. Several scenes with Burbank are almost presented like you’re watching a movie, in the way Gibson keeps describing his face being mysteriously blocked from view by objects or lighting, like not even in your mind you are supposed to know what he is. And it’s all the more fascinating because, unlike The Shadow, as far as we know, Burbank is just some guy who’s good with tech, who was only recruited in the 2nd story but apparently knows The Shadow from before it, and whom The Shadow entrusted with virtually every secret necessary to keep his operations running. 

It’s kind of a sign as to how utterly neglected the agents are that, to this day, few writers who’ve ever touched The Shadow has ever come close to giving us any sort of explanation or backstory or anything on Burbank, and I refuse to believe these people had that much self-control. Of course I have my own ideas for Burbank, but even I would hesitate to put them on a story, because Burbank epitomizes that double-edged sword that comes with a solid narrative mystery. Burbank just is, and hopefully he will stay that way. 

Number 4: Dr Roy Tam

Mention of Dr. Tam meant much to Sayre. He was acquainted with Roy Tam, the Chinese physician. He knew that Tam was a power in Chinatown; one who worked for good

Unrolling a map, Tam showed the entire Manhattan area, studded with tiny dots in districts quite remote from Chinatown.

"These represent my outposts," he said soberly. "They are places, owned by Chinese - restaurants, laundries, curio shops, other places of business. In each of these places, I have a friend."

The Shadow understood. Dr. Tam was the motivating factor among the Chinese who adapted themselves to American ways. His mission was to create good will among races, to put an end to prejudice and superstition.

A newer and more sober spirit had replaced the old and dangerous festivities. Feuds in Chinatown were a thing of the forgotten past. Dr. Tam and his associates had done much to bring about the present sentiment; but there were persons - even among that group - who felt regret at the passing of old traditions.

Dr Tam is a remarkably layered character for one that only appears in about ten stories, and he’s one of the agents I’m most eager to discuss in-depth. He’s another one of those agents that Gibson introduced by tricking you into seeing him as a villain, as a Yellow Peril cliche, until he is revealed to be in fact a good man. Not just good, Roy Tam is presented as a powerful, influential and cunning Chinese man with a lot of assistants secretly working for him, and who is consistently presented as a progressive, pacifistic, benevolent civic leader and ally, even friend, of The Shadow. 

Tam is very much westernized and the stories paint that mostly as a good thing, and this is one of the areas that I think could very much result in an interesting story that looks at the ramifications of his role, because of course not everyone is going to agree with his viewpoints, of course him being an advocate against superstition and tradition isn’t necessarily a good thing (and it’s not how Yat Soon, The Shadow’s other major Chinese ally, works, which puts the two at odds), and of course it’s a complicated situation, but the fact that Tam invites this kind of debate at all I think is something very interesting

Largely because of the movie, Dr Tam is one of the few agents of The Shadow who’s managed to sustain appearences in modern stories, and none of them have ever really went with his original angle as a powerful civic leader. Instead he’s been largely painted as either a scientist, like in the movie, a general practitioner, and a psychiatrist, and his age has been all over the board. 

I prefer him in his original form but I also very much like the idea of Roy Tam being, like the Chinese supervillains he was created to be a subversion of, an incredible genius who’s got skills in all fields that can fit under the “Dr” part of his job and is also an incredibly capable leader able to unify splintered communities under a cause of unity and cooperation, someone who absolutely could be the adventuring genius so many other pulp heroes are, except he dedicates himself wholesale to his community and the fight against prejudice and the betterment of lives, even if he’s misguided or wrong at some of the causes he takes up. I really think this character could partake in really great stories if ever brought back.

Number 3: Cliff Marsland

(Fan-art by @cryptixcreations)

Cliff may have actually been the first agent I really fell in love with based on concept alone, even before I read the stories he was a part of and started loving all of the others. He’s one of the few agents who has prior history with The Shadow and we get ever so tantalizing hints at his background that we ultimately never get to learn about in full. He’s the resident tough guy and underworld contact of The Shadow, which in any other series might have made him the biggest badass and a loner action hero who’s too cool for things like thinking and relying on others for help. But here, trying to be that only gets Cliff into trouble, and circumstances gradually morph him into the series equivalent of a Team Dad. 

He was one of the agents who we got to see develop as a character. As he appears more frequently past his introduction, he grows from a headstrong, careless jackass, mostly interested in the action parts of the job, who “resigned himself to an adventurous career with violent death as its inevitable termination”, into one of the most reliable and capable agents, taking the lead during action scenes but otherwise fully defering leadership to Harry, and being the agent most likely to partake in gunfights and rescue The Shadow out of trouble, joining in missions like infiltrating circuses or high-society clubs and forming very strong friendships with Harry, Clyde & Hawkeye, who almost kills a man with his bare hands when he thinks Harry’s been killed. He’s the hardass, square-jawed ex-con who plays the reputation of a brutal killer, and is in reality a great friend, ally and husband (Arline has sadly only been mentioned in three stories), on top of being an invaluable fighter and secret agent.

Cliff could have easily been the protagonist of a long-running series all his own and that’s one of my favorite aspects of The Shadow’s agents. They are people with agency, goals and dreams and relationships and lives beyond the roles they play, they all have strengths and weaknesses and faults and positives that bring them much closer to us than The Shadow could ever be, with no end to the variety of roles they can take, and Cliff in particular is a character I’m very attached to. 

I do hope that he eventually found peace in a quiet life with Arline once his business with The Shadow was over.

Number 2: Harry Vincent

The Shadow as a franchise has been vastly worse off as a result of Harry Vincent being completely sidelined and mischaracterized in virtually every adaptation since, and the sheer love that Shadow fans hold for Harry purely may be the closest thing to a true universal opinion in the fandom. 

Harry is a lot of things: the audience surrogate, the protagonist of much of the early stories, the leader of the agents in field duty, the dude in distress who gets kidnapped far more than even Margo, a hopeless romantic, an action hero, the one who gets sent to recruit agents because all The Shadow has to do is send Harry on an assignment and wait for him to come back with a new friend. He is a competent, resourceful, strong, extremely kind ball of sunshine who's got the potential for greatness, even if he can't see it. 

And for this post I’m going to highlight this: Harry is, on top of all that, the ultimate embodiment of what The Shadow strives to protect, help and uplift. He is the living proof that The Shadow's mission has a good, positive effect in the world, long after criminals are brought to justice and plots are failed and victims are rescued, purely by the fact that he’s alive and helping others who were once like him. Someone who, despite having so much to offer, could have easily been swept away by the world’s callousness and cruelty, if The Shadow wasn’t there to rescue him and uplift him.

I liked The Shadow pretty much at first sight after seeing the character’s design and listening to episodes of the radio show, and my appreciation for the character grew after reading The Shadow’s Shadow, but it wasn’t until I encountered @oldschoolcrimefighters and her brilliantly informative writings on The Shadow and Harry that I not only fell in love with the series, but decided to do everything in my power to try and get other people to love it too and see the potential it has. I think a lot more people should at least be aware of why Harry matters. 

Number 1: Moe Shrevnitz

I was honestly a bit surprised when I rounded up all of the agents to make this list and Shrevy here ended up in Number One, but in hindsight, it may have been obvious all along. 

My reasonings as to why Shrevy is my favorite agent do get a bit too personal, especially because of something that happened to me as I was writing this post, so I’m putting it on a separate post here. 

[jaskiers-sweetkiss]

Not So Bad

Pairings: Avengers!Reader x Daniel Sousa, Steve x Bucky (mentioned briefly) 

Summary: What happens when Tony and Natasha don’t die in the final battle with Thanos? Steve’s boyfriend has been returned from the dust and all his friends are alive and well. He has very little to gain from going back in time and everything to lose, so you volunteer to return the stones. Everything was going swimmingly until a Pym Particle malfunction left you stranded in 1949 with little hope of return. You seek out Howard Stark, hoping he’ll be able to come up with a solution to get you back. However, the longer you remain stranded, the more you start to realize maybe the past isn’t so bad after all.

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: mild swearing, slight fear of needles/experimentation. 

A/N: Rewatching Agent Carter and the new season of Agents of SHIELD have me on a high Sousa high but I’ve noticed there aren’t many Sousa x Reader fics on this site so I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. Let me know if I should write a part 2! 

Sequel

___

“Shit,” you gasped, frantically hitting the device on your wrist. “Shit shit shit shit.” 

You were standing in a supply closet though you were supposed to be standing in Tony’s yard, surrounded by the rest of the Avengers team as you celebrate the defeat of Thanos and saving the world one more time. The party was also doubling as Steve’s retirement party; he was finally passing the shield and title of Captain America to Sam and settling down with Bucky. Your travels to return the Infinity Stones had left you famished and you were craving a slice of celebratory cake but there you were, stuck in a 1940s supply closet. 

“Damn you, Scott Lang,” you cursed under your breath once you realized the device wouldn’t be sending you back to the present (or is it technically the future?) anytime soon. 

You let your back slide down the wall, resting on the floor as you wracked your brain for a solution. Lord knows you weren’t qualified to tinker with the device, all this time travel stuff hurt your head when you thought about it too much. The only people who knew what they were doing were Scott and Tony and they were still in the present, probably slicing into that delicious cake right now…

Your stomach rumbled and you groaned. “Damn you, Stark.” 

Then it hit you. 

“Oh my gosh! Stark!” You shouted your epiphany before remembering where you were and slapping a hand over your own mouth, only removing it once you were sure no one had heard you. 

At least you had your solution. Find Howard Stark, fix the device, return to the present (future?), eat some food. 

Your stomach rumbled again. Maybe food should be higher on your to-do list. 

___

You were kinda surprised when you didn’t cry upon learning that Howard Stark’s jet had just left for Los Angeles. You were stranded in Camp Lehigh, 74 years into the past, and your one shot at getting back just flew across the country. 

Alright, new objective: find Peggy Carter, surely she could get you to LA. Of course, you’d have to find a way to convince her to help you without destroying the timeline. You’ll also have to figure out how to get Howard’s help without telling him you’re a time-traveler and without giving him the ability to recreate the device. Holy shit you were never going to get home. 

You were so caught up in your own mind that you weren’t paying attention to where you were going until you were abruptly knocked over. 

“Oh my gosh, are you alright?” A concerned voice rang out above you and you looked up to see a hand reaching out to help you up. A hand that was attached to an extremely attractive dark-haired man. 

You took the hand, allowing the man to help you off the floor as you apologized, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying any attention!”

“That’s alright, I wasn’t either.” He said, head tilted down in embarrassment. 

The pair of you lingered awkwardly, neither showing any intention of carrying on your separate ways. Finally, the man broke the silence.

“Um, can I help you at all?” He asked, cheeks flushing slightly as he met your eyes for the first time. 

“Uh, yeah, actually.” You responded, your voice suddenly becoming inexplicably quiet. “I’m looking for Howard Stark?”

No, you idiot! You cursed yourself, you know where Howard is! You’re looking for Peggy Carter.

“You just missed him.” The man gave you a sad chuckle. “His plane just took off for LA.” 

“Shit.” You cursed, trying to channel your frustrations into accurately faking a reaction to bad news you had already received. It wasn’t until you saw the look on the man’s face that you remembered where, or rather when, you were. “Aw hell, don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who thinks it’s inappropriate for women to curse?” 

Wow, y/n you’re really nailing it with the first impressions here.

“N-not at all,” The man’s eyes were blown wide as he stumbled to explain himself. “I’d be damned if I thought women weren’t fit to do anything a man could. You just don’t hear many women cursing around here, is all.”

You peered at him curiously, head tilted slightly as you did so. He wasn’t at all what you had expected from the time period. 

“Any chance you could direct me to Agent Carter’s office?” You finally spoke, changing the subject, needing to get back on mission. “If Stark forgot my meeting then I’ll have to find a way to LA, I figure Agent Carter’s my best bet.” 

You knew making up an appointment with Stark was going to bite you in the ass later when he didn’t know who you were but you decided you’d cross that bridge when you came to it. Right now, you needed to get to Stark as quickly as possible and this seemed like the best way to do it. 

“Oh, I was actually headed there myself. I’ll walk you.” The man offered and you smiled gratefully, following him down the hallway, past your supply closet before finally reaching a door that said “Director Peggy Carter.”

“After you,” the man said kindly, holding the door open for you and you stepped into the office. 

You’d seen pictures of Peggy Carter. Of course you had, nobody made it through the World War II section of their history class without seeing at least one picture of Peggy Carter, and well, you worked with Steve so you’d seen plenty of other pictures as well. But Carter was much more stunning in person and no picture could capture the way she held a room. 

“Daniel, it’s good to see you,” You assumed she was greeting the man now stood beside you as you never got his name. “Who’s this?” 

“Oh, uh…” Daniel trailed off, seeming to only just realize he hadn’t gotten your name either. 

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you answered, saving the man from fumbling any longer. 

“Are you new to base, Agent Y/L/N?” Carter asked, looking at you as if she was trying to remember you but was coming up blank. 

“Oh, I’m not an agent,” you corrected before you could stop yourself. You were on a secure SHIELD base and you just told the director that you weren’t an agent, it sounded suspicious even to you. 

“Then what are you doing on my base?” She asked, tone direct but not harsh. 

“I was supposed to be meeting Mr. Stark for an, uh, appointment?” Your hesitation to commit to your flimsy cover was clearly interpreted as something else as Carter’s gaze became stern. 

“An ‘appointment’?” Her lips pursed as she repeated your excuse and you winced. “Well Miss Y/L/N, Howard Stark is no longer here, in fact, he’s no longer in this state and I have no intention of letting one of his women running around my base.” 

Oh my god. 

You couldn’t help the flush that erupted under your skin at the implication. 

“Oh, no, ma’am.” You began to correct her before you could become any more embarrassed. “It’s a strictly professional appointment. He wanted to, uh, run some tests?” 

This time your embarrassment saved your poor excuse of a cover story. You really needed to actually come up with something rather than making it up as you went, you were going to get caught. 

“Tests for what?” You could tell this was her own curiosities shining through, as everyone in the room knew it was none of their business what Stark was going to “test” you for, but well, you could exactly plead the fifth now. Especially not when Peggy Carter though you were a call girl. 

“It’s uh, it’s a bit personal ma’am,” you said softly, hoping to dissuade her from pressing further but she just raised her eyebrows as if to say “go on.” You glanced at the man on your left, really not wanting to say this in front of more people than necessary. Carter seemed to notice your reluctance and pursed her lips once more,

“Miss Y/L/N, Agent Sousa is the head of our West Coast division and your best chance at getting to Los Angeles. Whatever you have to say, you say to both of us.”

You sighed, wondering if what you were about to do was worth it but you couldn’t think of any other reasonable excuse so you started talking. 

“Well, ma’am, I sorta... levitate.” You practically whispered the last word, as if it was deeply offensive. 

It wasn’t a lie per se, you could levitate but you could do much more than just that. You could fly and you could also turn invisible but you decided to leave all that out, sticking with an ability that could be perceived as an anomaly. Something that would greatly interest a man like Howard Stark. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m not quite sure how, ma’am.” You played into the anomaly angle, hoping they’d buy it. “It just happens sometimes and I can’t control it.”

“Daniel, Miss Y/L/N will be joining you on your flight to LA,” Carter informed the man and he readily nodded. It seemed you had a convincing cover after all. You made a mental note to thank Nat for all those espionage classes when you get back home. 

___

“I’m just going to take a blood sample and then you’re free to go,” Howard said and you winced. You weren’t a fan of needles, especially when it came to learning about your abilities; you had gone through enough of that in your life already, but here you were subjecting yourself to the experiments once again. You had to keep reminding yourself that it was for the mission. 

To his credit, Daniel Sousa had not left your side since you met at Camp Lehigh. At first, it had been cumbersome, as you were unable to ask Howard for help with your actual problem. But now you were thankful for his presence, it had become something of a comfort through all your stress and anxieties over your current situation. 

It seemed as though Sousa could sense your discomfort, reaching out a hand as Howard prepped the needle. You took it gladly, squeezing tight enough for the man to groan slightly and catch Howard’s attention. 

You thought you heard him mutter “cute” and you blushed slightly before he stuck you with the needle and all your attention went back to squeezing the life out of Sousa’s hand, clenching your eyes shut in a failed attempt to pretend none of this was real. 

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding when Howard removed the needle, though it took you a few moments longer to let go of Sousa’s hand, almost having forgotten you were holding it in the first place. You muttered a quiet apology when you saw him massaging his hand but he merely smiled at you as if to say you had nothing to be sorry about. 

“That’s all I need from you today Miss Y/L/N,” Howard spoke cheerfully, pulling off his gloves and jotting something down on a clipboard. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to have you come back tomorrow for a few more tests.” 

You shuddered at the idea but nodded anyway but Sousa ran a hand down half his face in what you weren’t sure was tiredness or frustration. 

“Stark, it’s four a.m.,” He sighed as if he was used to Stark’s night-owl tendencies. “Surely you don’t expect her to be back here in a few hours after you already forced her to pull an all-nighter for your tests.”

You couldn’t stop your heart from swelling at the man’s words. It had been a long time since you had felt so seen by another person and though you could take care of yourself, it was nice to have someone stick up for you. 

“Well, what do you know, it is.” Stark mused thoughtfully, “I never can keep track of time when my mind’s on a project.” He trailed off then as he thought. The silence was a bit alarming, Howard had barely stopped talking long enough to breathe since you had arrived. 

“Very well, Miss Y/L/N, take tomorrow- or I suppose, today- off and come back the next day. I should have your blood sample analyzed by then too, which’ll give us something more to go off of.” 

You nodded, equal parts relieved and anxious. You were thankful for a test-free day however that meant it would be another twenty-four hours until you could talk to Stark about fixing his son’s time travel device. But for the time being you let Sousa drive you back to his place where he insisted on making up the sofa bed for you without any help. 

Your heart warmed as you watched the man do everything in his power to make sure you were comfortable. You had known each other for less than a day but already he had opened up his home to you. You couldn’t help the flutter in your stomach as you watched him limp around the house gathering bedding and anything else you might need while repeatedly shooting down your offers to help out. It felt nice to be taken care of for once. 

“I’ll talk to Rose tomorrow about getting you some other clothes,” you didn’t know who Rose was but you knew Daniel Sousa, head of the West Coast division of SHIELD, didn’t need to be concerning himself with getting some rando new clothes and yet there he was, already making plans to do just that. “But for now, I hope these work.” He looked away shyly as he offered some of his own clothing up to you. 

You muttered a shy “thank you” of your own as you accepted the T-shirt and pair of sweatpants.  

“Bathroom’s right down the hall, towels are in the closet if you want to shower.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck as he nodded in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Thank you, Agent Sousa.” You said sincerely. 

“You’re staying in my house, I think you can call me Daniel.” He corrected with a small smile. 

“Alright then, thank you, Daniel.” 

You padded down the hall to the bathroom, borrowed clothing clutched in your arms. It felt nice to step under the warm water. While it would only be a few seconds for your team, returning the Infinity Stones had taken quite a bit of time and though your mission was far from over, you were grateful for a moment to relax. You left the bathroom feeling, and smelling, like a whole new person. You weren’t sure, but you thought you saw Daniel’s face redden when you reentered the living room in his clothes before he ducked his head, hiding his face from your view. 

“Do you need anything else Miss Y/L/N?” Daniel asked as you gingerly sat on the edge of the sofa bed. 

“I’m staying in your house, I think you can call me Y/N.” You grinned as you parroted back his words from earlier and he laughed warmly. 

“Well, try and get as much sleep as you can, Y/N, and we’ll worry about everything else once we’re rested.” He smiled reassuringly, as though sensing how lost you felt though not knowing just how lost you truly were. “I’ll be at the end of the hall if you need anything.” 

You nodded with an appreciative smile before exchanging quiet goodnights. You watched Daniel make his way down the hall to his bedroom and close the door before you laid down yourself. The sofa bed was surprisingly comfortable and you suddenly realized how truly exhausted you were. As you laid in the dark on a stranger’s bed in a stranger’s home in a strange time you thought back through the events of the last twenty-four hours and your stomach erupted into butterflies again when your thoughts landed on a certain handsome, dark-haired agent. 

The last thought you had before drifting off to sleep was ‘maybe the past isn’t so bad.’

[jadekitty777]

Snapshot Aesthetics

OKAY BUT FG WEEKEND? WHO’S CRAZY IDEA WAS THAT.

You better know I want to participate though xD I didn’t plan to have an entry for today but, well, things change lol

Day 1: Outfits

Rating: K

Words: 2.2k

Summary: Clover's job was simple: Get the model to pose properly, smile, and take the shot. But the new hire, Qrow, was about to throw a wrench into that simplicity... in more ways than one. [Fashion Model AU]

Ao3 Link: Snapshot Aesthetics

~

Snap!

The sound of his camera shutter going off was almost inaudible under the early morning hustle that had overtaken the studio. Clover inspected the shot of Elm displaying back on his LCD screen. He shook his head, calling to the stagehand, “Lower the forelights! There’s too much washout!”

“You got it boss.” She saluted, stepping off the scene to go tinker with the fluorescents.

Th telltale sound of stilettos had his head turning, seeing Willow striding over, lips pursed with annoyance. “Are we ready yet?”

“Almost.” He assured, showing her the picture. “Just a bit more tweaking on the lights and we’ll be good to go.”

She placed a hand on her hip, scanning the team critically. “Good.”

“Everything alright? You look…” He mulled over all his safe adjective options, “Unhappy.”

She sighed exasperatedly. “Qrow is causing a bit of a ruckus back in dress. Won’t let Kali even do his makeup.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what I was thinking, listening to Taiyang.”

“It’s probably because the new guy’s pretty.” And related to Raven, he thought but didn’t dare utter the runway model’s name aloud. If he did, then it would make his manager think of her ex-husband and Raven’s agent, Jacques Schnee. That was a nasty pandora’s box he’d rather keep closed.

Nevertheless, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she hired someone simply based on an affiliation they had to someone in Jacques’ team, thinking it as some retroactive way of getting back at him. Taiyang himself was one such decision, also ironically due his connection with Raven. Though, he’d heard the two’s relationship had been more… carnal in nature.

The plus was, Taiyang had worked out great. He was handsome and jovial and easy to direct on set. Clover’s only hope when he learned of the new hire was that the same could be said for Qrow; but, it was sounding like he had his twin sister’s notorious diva-like personality, if Willow’s frustration was anything to go by. Which meant he was in for a long day.

“Light check!” Elm called, flexing both arms proudly like a muscle builder.

He snapped the shot, then nodded at the quality. “Perfect!”

Willow swiveled, heading for the door. “Let’s get started then.”

~

Over the course of the seven years Clover had worked for Trendy magazine, he’d discovered that each fashion designer had a specific ‘taste’ they were going for when it came to showing off their line-up and he’d learned to pose the models accordingly to keep their clients happy and coming back for each issue. So, he kept certain things in mind with each designer’s desires, like how Sienna preferred her poses to be as dynamic and wild as possible and Camilla wanted proper posture and a bit of elegance.

Unfortunately, today’s clothing line was from Roman and Neo. Which meant balancing the two designers’ conflicting requirements of flamboyance and subtlety into one picture. It tended to lead to a lot of small changes for limb placement and expression before he ever even rose his camera.

So, it tended to be a relief when the snap sounded off and he said, “Alright, you’re done!”

“Oh, thank god!” Tai slumped over immediately, rolling out his shoulders. “I think my neck has a crick in it.”

Clover snorted. “Alright drama king. Go take a break.” He turned towards the doorway, calling, “Who’s next up?”

He heard Kali’s faint, “Get in there. And stop messing with your hair!”

A gruff voice he didn’t recognize replied, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Before Qrow Branwen walked into the room and stole his breath away.

Though he’d joked before, Clover hadn’t actually known what the man had looked like. He rarely did see new models before their first shoot. But now that he was, it had to be said that maybe Willow had indeed hired Qrow simply for his beauty. In almost every way, he was like a softer version of his sister. Where her skin was striking alabaster white, his had more of a welcoming ivory tone. Where her eyes were bright scarlet, his were a gentle vermillion. And where her hair was an ink black, his held streaks of dusty grey that somehow was just enough to make him appear refined, but not old.

Combine that with Roman and Neo’s classy “modern early-1900’s” style, and he looked absolutely dazzling. It was one of their simpler pieces, but dress had made sure he wore it well, especially with the plain, long-sleeved, white dress shirt that someone had decided to undo the top few buttons off to frame a cross necklace hanging sideways. Pulled over that and adding some muted color was a double-layered vest that buttoned from the bottom of the ribs down. The inner layer was a slate grey while the outer layer was a deep charcoal and had a tasteful embroidery design flowing down the sides. The matching dark grey slacks were fairly standard but nicely fitting to the man’s ridiculously long legs. Completing the picture were some shiny cap-toed black dress shoes.

“So uh, how do you want me?” Qrow asked, fidgeting with the cross-shaped cufflinks of his shirt.

Splayed across my bed. Clover shook himself of any indecent thoughts, nodding towards the set that mimicked an old parlor room. “Center stage, leaning back on the table.”

He nodded, crossing the room.

As they passed each other, Tai offered a thumb’s up and a cheery, “Good luck!”

The little half-grin Qrow offered his friend left Clover floating.

Not that the other man was going to need any well wishes, as he’d decided on something fairly simplistic. As Qrow took position, he directed, “Alright, I want you to rest your hands on the table, in view. Keep your fingers spread out.”

“Like this?” He settled them by his hips.

“Mm no. Spread your arms further apart. Position your hands the other way, pointing opposite directions. Yeah – like that! A little more for the right hand. Relax your shoulders more. No, no not that much.” And on and on it went, as Clover altered each little angle and body part until he had the exact position in mind. Yet, despite the ease of what he was asking for, Qrow’s inexperience meant he had to spend twice as long getting things just right.

It quickly became clear by his 60th order that the older man was growing a bit exasperated.

Clover eyed him up and down. Hummed thoughtfully at the position of where his ankles crossed, the toe of one dress shoe pointed down. “Okay, tilt your left heel just a bit more.”

“Is all this really necessary?” Qrow grumbled, trying not to move anything else but his foot.

“When the client is picky, yeah. And stop clawing your fingers. Keep them flat.”

The other man breathed in and out slowly, carefully resting down his hands.

He gave him another once over. Frowned.

The tension he could easily see doubled as Qrow demanded, “What now?”

“Maybe we should try something different.” He considered.

The words were met with Qrow groaning out, “You got to be kidding me.”

And Willow cutting in, “Go with it. We got to get this shoot done before noon!”

He glanced at his wristwatch. Shit, was it really almost eleven? He still had four other designs to go. “Yeah, alright. Qrow, just try to relax your muscles a bit.” He rose his camera. “Alright, now smile.”

He did, stretching it as big as he could.

Clover looked at him over the lens, raising a brow. “I said smile, not look like you’re trying to imitate clown make-up.” Ignoring the other’s sarcastic laughter, he mulled it over, then snapped his fingers. “Ah, I know! Give me the same one you gave to Tai when you first walked in.”

He could tell it wasn’t quite right when it didn’t have the same cloud nine effect on him as before, but with the clock ticking in his head, he took the shot.

“Alright, that’ll do.” Clover said.

“We’re done?” Qrow asked, not moving an inch, as if worried he’d change his mind.

“Yep. You’re free as a bird.”

That earned him a real laugh. “That was awful!”

For the hell of it, he took another shot.

~

There was always such a sense of relief when Clover submitted the photos to processing. From there the team would do whatever touch ups were necessary before it went in for print. Normally, the rest of his day was done, but he had another engagement at a rally across town that would keep him busy well into the evening. So, he found himself stepping into the break room, intent on grabbing a cup of coffee and heading on his way.

He was surprised to find Qrow there, huddled in one of the corner tables. He was dressed down, back in his casuals, but still managed to make a t-shirt and some slacks look like runway material. They met gazes briefly, before the elder man’s eyes dropped back to his phone, not saying a word.

Already short on time, Clover was content to leave it like that, but as he finished mixing his coffee together, guilt seeped in. If they were going to be working together, then one of them had to take the first step and it was much harder for the new guy to take it.

“You did good today.” He spoke.

Qrow scoffed. “You kidding? I was a disaster.” He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll be lucky if they ask me to come back.”

Ah. So, he wasn’t a snob - he was insecure. Clover could work with that.

“Ah come on. It wasn’t that bad.” He crossed the room, turning the opposite chair sideways and falling into it. “You’re just a little stiff. A few more of these and you’ll relax.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and take it a little easy on the people in dress.”

“They were trying to poke my eye out! Whoever invented eyeliner is a demon.”

He guffawed heartily. “It’s not that bad.”

Qrow sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair. “Still, I don’t know what I was thinking, letting Tai convince me to take this job.”

Seemed Tai was doing a lot of that lately.

“I’m not a model. That’s my sister’s gig. And…” Qrow gestured to himself. “I mean, look at me.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure it must get tiring getting all those calls from Mr. Universe asking you to come reclaim your crown.” He countered.

“Tch, if anyone’s got a crown to go reclaim, it’s probably you.” A second later, he seemed to realize what he said and hid his face in his hand. “Oh my god, I didn’t just- I’m sorry, that was inappropriate.”

Clover couldn’t stop grinning. “Relax gorgeous. You’re in the right business to be making comments like that.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t feel so bad, either. You’re not the only one self-conscious around here. Winter? Breaks out before every shoot. James? Has a scar right here.” He ran a finger above the line of his right eyebrow. “And by now, we’ve got to be giving Tai a complex with how much gets altered in processing.”

“He certainly had a lot to say about last month’s issue.”

“Well, you know, we gotta follow those trends and freckles are in.” He was sure there was a lot of talk on the questionable ethics of digitally changing people’s appearances to portray an unobtainable beauty, but it was a topic he wasn’t too interested in engaging with. In the end, it all just came down to the paycheck and keeping people’s jobs. Because if a model couldn’t sell the clothes they were wearing, then they weren’t going to get to keep modeling them.

Qrow leant back, crossing his arms. “Wonder how much they’ll change about me.”

“Well, they’ll definitely take out those cute wrinkles you get around your eyes when you laugh.”

“I wasn’t laughing?”

“Not in the first shot. But I may have…” He shrugged sheepishly. “Taken another one, right at the end? You looked more natural.”

Qrow blinked. “Well. Alright then. Guess that’s why you’re the expert.” His gaze drifted past Clover’s shoulder at about the same time he heard the footsteps. “Hey Tai. All done?”

“Yeah.” The blond replied as he stopped at their table, eyeing him suspiciously. “Hopefully the company flirt wasn’t giving you trouble.”

“Oh sunshine,” Clover drawled, playing it up as he bat his eyelashes at the other man. “I hope you know you’re my one and only.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Save it for the guys actually swinging your way.” He nodded to his friend. “Come on, we better get moving if we want to get the girls on time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Qrow stood. “It was nice meeting you Clover.”

“Same here. Looking forward to working with you.” He replied sincerely. A pleasant little warmth tingled through him when the sentiment earned him an adorable smile.

As he watched him go, Clover cast his earlier worries aside and decided that this truly was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

[florenceandthemachine]

and finally, because i’m a basic bitch and i love a classic cliche trope, stackson and fake dating (◕‿◕✿)

I’m making this a Part One. Why? Because I’m a messy bitch. 

If I ever wrote anything on AO3, this would be the first chapter, but I don’t because that’s too much responsibility. 

SO.

Fake Boyfriends. Lets go. 

“My parents are taking me to England for Christmas.”

Jackson was never great with hellos. 

“What?”

Stiles, on the other hand, wasn’t always that great with comprehension. 

To his credit, though, he had been eyes-deep in several books about the history of Quetzalcoatl, a feathered, snake-like, flying deity of Mesoamerican culture that he was writing a history report on. He was also about 80% sure that was the thing that Scott had been in a fight with last week, so… well. It was just a wonderful way to double dip, get twice the work done and get graded for doing the research that he would have to do to save their own skin in the first place. 

So, his eyes were a little crossed and his head was probably spinning a little bit as he looked up to see Jackson, standing there, his hair messy (that was red flag number one) and his eyes bright blue (that was red flag number two) and—

“Stiles, pay attention. My parents are taking me to England for Christmas.”

—and Jackson was using his first name, which was red flag number three.

Shaking his head clear of thoughts of feathered snakes, Stiles rubbed his eyes with one hand, sweeping aside some of the books and papers he had laid about the table with the other, effectively making room for Jackson to sit. 

And sit Jackson did, looking like an angry, deflated puppy. Stiles had to quash that mental train of thought—yet again—about how cute Jackson could look while he was angry. He knew better than to speak when those thoughts were swimming around in his head, but that was okay, because he knew that there was no amount of prodding that would be successful when Jackson was in A Mood. 

But seriously—what the fuck was wrong with England? It seemed like a very Whittemore trip, and even then, it—

“I don’t think we’re coming back.”

Feeling his heart skip a beat as panic quickly focuses him on the task at hand, Stiles gapes for a half second before forcing his mouth shut, Quetzalcoatl long since forgotten as he took on this new… threat. At least, it felt like a threat. Jackson was pack, after all. “Jackson, that’s… insane. They can’t do that.”

Jackson’s eyes flick over to him, his eyes hard and unforgiving, and Stiles pales. 

“Can they?”

Jackson spends the next half hour going over everything (and honestly, if the situation weren’t so apparently dire, Stiles would have been on cloud nine, knowing that they apparently had long since moved past enemies)—how his fathers law firm had opened up a branch in London almost three years ago, how they had been dogging Jackson’s father to basically run the joint. Apparently, it escalated over the past year (“after Lydia and I broke up, which apparently means that I’m fine to go and have no other fucking attachments”) and Jackson had stumbled upon an entire itinerary, moving quotes, property listings, the whole nine yards. 

Stiles let his angle loop around Jacksons as the other started to wind down, pulling from some old Scott knowledge, giving Jackson some physical contact to ground himself with—even unconsciously.

“…and now I think that we’re going to go up there for our little fucking vacation, and suddenly I’m going to wake up and there’s going to be a moving truck outside with all my shit.” Jackson is out of breath when he finishes, his head in his hands in frustration, voice muffled through what Stiles can only imagine is a mouth full of fangs and his own deep breathing exercises. 

The silence between the two lingers in the air for the moment as Jackson works to get his breathing under control, and Stiles squares his jaw as he nods his head. 

“When do you leave?”

“Stilinski, you can’t just fix this, you—“

“I’m not fucking with you, Jackson. When do you leave.”

Jackson turns his head, his eyes shockingly human.

“…after finals. Saturday evening.”

“Good. I have some time then.”

And with that, Stiles stood and walked out of the room, leaving Jackson overall confused—and, weirdly, missing the weight against his ankle that he didn’t even notice was there. He only had a moment to miss it, though, before his attention was taken over by the stacks of shit left behind on the table.

“….wait! Stilinski! What about all of your shit?!”

~

Jackson may not have had the strongest belief in Stiles fixing this, but once they had completed their final exams, that small flicker of hope had basically been doused in water. He was positively miserable by Saturday morning, more or less moping around his house, and he would have been almost angry to hear Stiles’ jeep pull up if he wasn’t so fucking resigned to it all.

Hauling himself down the stairs, he throws the door open before Stiles even has a chance to knock, and he’s… carrying a suitcase. 

“…Stilinski, what the fuck.”

Because Stiles is beaming at him like the sun, like he had just solved all of Jackson’s problems, and that is a concerting look. He flips his suitcase around with a grand flourish, backpack slung over his shoulder, the Jeep parked off to the side of the driveway. 

“I’m coming with you.”

“The fuck you are.”

“Yes, the fuck I am.”

“Stilinski—“

“You said it yourself, Jackson. Lydia acted as the perfect buffer. So I’ll take that position. And I’ll have to come home at some point, so I’ll just make sure I bring you with me.”

God, he was making it sound so easy—but Jackson wouldn’t let himself hope, for an instant, that it would be so simple. 

“Stilinski, you can’t just leave your dad alone for the holidays.” Jackson snapped, slightly concerned as Stiles just shrugged that off. “He won’t be alone. He has Scott, and Melissa, and the pack. And the pack includes you too, asshole. So, I’m going.”

Jackson felt his scowl deepen as he tried again, worry sparking in his stomach. “This isn’t a simple day trip, you idiot. You don’t have a ticket, you don’t even have—“

“I have my passport, dumbass.” Stiles snarked as he pulled it out of his backpack, smacking it against Jackson’s chest. “And you’re a Whittemore. Do you really mean to tell me you can’t get another ticket last minute? Are your connections really that useless?”

Jackson gaped at him, his irritation spiking again. Of course they could get another ticket, that wasn’t the fucking point.

“That isn’t the fucking point.” So maybe his eloquence was lacking in his current state, sue him. “It won’t work. Lydia wasn’t a buffer just because she was there, she was a buffer because she was—“

“Jackson, who was at the do… oh, hello, uh… what’s going on?”

Stiles and Jackson both looked up in near perfect sync as Jackson’s mother descended the stairs, his hand still pressed against Jackson’s chest, suitcase still lingering in the doorway.

Jackson snapped his eyes back to Stiles with a glare, brow moving in a truly impressive (and vaguely Hale-esque way, Derek would be so proud). 

Stiles, the bastard, only smiled, watching Jackson’s jaw tic as his mind moved a thousand miles an hour. After what felt like an eternity, Jackson nodded curtly, pulling Stiles’ arm as he turned back to the stairs. His other hand slid around Stiles waist, tugging him close, and Stiles only had half a moment to go into shock before Jackson was speaking. 

“Uh, you remember Stiles, right? I invited him along for Christmas this year.” Jackson started, his press-polite-fake smile plastered on his face, and… wait, when did Stiles learn the difference between his real and fake smiles?

“I’m sorry I didn’t clear it with you, I spaced it out. But it would mean a lot to me if he could come with us.”

Stiles felt his heart sink a little, guilt weighing on him in the slightest way—he couldn’t put into words how uncomfortable he was with Jackson apologizing for his own lie. Jackson could smell it on him, and he squeezed Stiles a little tighter, already accepting the unspoken apology.

“Can you see if Dennis can add another ticket and room, last minute? It would mean a lot to me to be able to spend Christmas with my boyfriend.”

…

Wait, what?

Stiles must have been as shocked as Jackson’s mother looked, but thankfully, she recovered far before Stiles could even process what was going on. She was off in moments, talking about how lovely it would be to have company with them, her smile seemingly genuine as she went back upstairs.

Stiles, on the other hand, was stuck in place, gaping at Jackson like a fish out of water, and Jackson, the asshole, was watching, a smirk slowly spreading on his lips. 

“I was saying that it wouldn’t work, you fuckhead, because Lydia wasn’t just a buffer due to proximity. She was the perfect buffer because she was my girlfriend.” Jackson’s smile was sweet but his words were pure poison, and Stiles closed and opened his mouth a few more times before he found his voice again. 

“Who the fuck is Dennis?”

Jackson actually did laugh at that, a curious expression on his face, explaining the wonders of being on a first-name basis with a travel agent as he snatched Stiles passport, took a picture of all of the relevant information on it, and sent it to… well, Dennis, Stiles assumed.

His gape turned into a grimace, though, when Jackson turned fully to him, already starting to shutter himself. 

“Look, I know this wasn’t what you had in mind, at all, and don’t even lie to me and say you’re fine with it. So if you want to back out, this is your… only chance, Stilinski.“

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Dude, if I’m your boyfriend now, it’s Stiles. No last name crap.”

“….fake boyfriend, if anything, and what I’m saying is—“

“Jackson, shut up and listen to me.” Stiles said, grabbing Jackson’s hand and putting it directly onto his heart. Jackson, blessedly, shut up as requested. His tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth—he swallowed, all too aware that he probably wasn’t going to be a huge fan of whatever came out of Stiles mouth next. He was never a fan of people forcing him to hear what they said as truth, but something in his gut told him that it wouldn’t be quite the sucker punch coming from Stiles. 

“You are pack.” No lie detected. 

“You’re important to the pack.” …no lie detected.

“And I am never, ever, letting anyone take you from the pack.”

Jackson didn’t even need to feel Stiles heartbeat to know he was telling the truth. 

Hearing it so blatantly laid out before him wasn’t the sucker punch to the stomach that Jackson was expecting, it was so, so much worse. Jackson would have preferred the sucker punch to the sudden feeling of butterflies.

[volkswagonblues]

for @elilim​, because we were talking about gold standard fanfics

Romance of the Age, nimmieamee (Harry Potter):

“Snape did his best to comfort her. He did not want to do this in the usual and boring way, which was sure to leave her limp and un-excited. He saw an opportunity to enflame and arouse her. So, instead of assuring her that her parents had not suffered and were probably in a better place, he ended up delivering a passionate and truly stirring oratory on the insignificance of Muggle transportation and the worthless, banal horror of hospital authorities who hungered for identification. It involved a great deal of sneering. This was not what Lily really wanted. She was rather desperately hoping for some assurance that her parents were in a better place.“

this is by nimmieamee, whom i ADORE. I don’t think she’s ever super famous in any fandom because none of her fics become huge fandom “blockbusters”, which is just proof that talent never gets the recognition it deserves and readers are morons. (I’m not normally this mean, but I do get like this when it comes to writers I really admire). I think she is basically the gold standard plot+style+characterization. Her prose is so fucking musical and clever; reading this after reading a lot of, idk, “normal” fanfic is like chugging Veuve Clicquot after sipping on toilet bowl water for a week.

Romance of the Age is just...everything that a fic should be and shouldn’t be. For one thing it’s HARD to read. The author uses a very neat stylistic device where characters’ names are intentionally withheld to be revealed later at the right moments, and it’s so incredibly smart on a plot and a thematic level. It’s a social satire about rich, bored people that uses your knowledge of HP canon as part of its arsenal to make a satire about rich, bored people. I read it about three times before I understood who all these people were, but everytime I come across a new turn of phrase, a new clever insight, a new way of thinking about an old thing. This is like the opposite of emotional candy. It’s dense and difficult and intellectually nourishing. 

I think the best way to read it, if you’re not up with all the details of HP canon, is to skim through the wiki articles for characters like Narcissa Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Regulus Black, and Walburga Black. Yes, it’s fic that has homework attached to it. I KNOW.

The Mountain King, mldavies (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy):

There was a secret second story in the Circus, as there is most places men work, or live, or do business: you might even call it a second society. The women of the Circus walked through the same door that the men did every morning, and came out the same door every night; they sat under the same ghostly lights and trod over the same grey floors. And yet when the shopkeepers and postmen and vagrants watched them coming in and out of the brick building they usually took no notice: “Secretaries,” they said, if they said anything. If they were feeling particularly lurid they imagined what might happen if someone captured one of those secretaries and tried to extract secret information from her, but they were really only interested in the especially beautiful girls, and there weren’t many of them passing through the Circus doors. When they did, the men watching perked up, and started spinning theories about spies, and double agents, and imagining, depending on their particular proclivities, Lauren Bacall or Rita Hayworth or Ingrid Bergman in a sleek dress and some kind of fur garment—they were men; they didn’t bother with these kinds of details—stealing state secrets and then doing unspeakable things, for reasons that didn’t really require explaining, as these narratives were only the morning or evening fantasies of middle-aged men with rather dull home lives.

So TTSS was a John Le Carrre book turned into a 2011 movie with Gary Oldman and John Hurt and also Tom Hardy. The chances are...slim that you’ve read this book or seen the film, but this is basically a novella that I constantly think about. I follow mldavies on twitter: she hosts a podcast and she’s basically a Real Novelist, and my god the difference is real. You can tell the second that you open up this fic that it was written as “lit fic” and not “fanfic”, and not to say that fic isn’t valuable, but there are tangible differences that have nothing to do with quality. Literally the length of the paragraphs and the way line breaks are set up tells you that the author was thinking about writing for the page and not the screen. 

Again, it’s everything that a fic should be and shouldn’t be. It expands the world of the film and the book by exploring the lives of the silent background characters, it uses your knowledge of canon as part of its DNA to tell a richer story that builds off a story that you know already. The prose is just...again, chugging Veuve Clicquot, you feel? 

(she also has a few HP and Marvel and Teen Wolf fics, if you want to read her style in a fandom you’re more familiar in. https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189122) 

Prince of Apple Towns, kvkindi (Marvel Cinematic Universe)

In California, it doesn't matter so much. California is like someone sanded the earth down, just came along with a neat hard edge and wiped out everything out, and started from scratch. A fresh clean world. The sunlight hits the ground at strange angles. The trees smell like trees from the Paleozoic. The sea isn't old like the sea off Long Island. There's no history to it. He saw a campus exhibit on Polynesian navigation. There were maps made out of twigs, maps that look like geometric figures. Wooden maps of ocean swells, from the Marshall Islands. Howard didn't know how to read them. He doesn't like this idea, that some knowledge is secret.

Okay, so I know you’re not a MCU fan, but again, this is an actual novel that has worked some strange feat of alchemy to far surpass the base metals that it was forged from. I don’t know if you need to even know anything about MCU or Howard Stark or the Iron Man movies to appreciate this novel about WW2 and the invention of the atomic bomb and the way that science has eclipsed man’s ability to control it. I don’t know what to say. I think I left a hysterical comment on it back in 2016 that was basically just me having a breakdown 

...i just checked. I left THREE (3) SUPER hysterical comments. Let me quote from one of them:

“I'm incapable of speech. The world is empty. Our future is only a gun's recoil of the past. I'm walking into the Atlantic and the only thing I'm leaving behind is a shadow on a wall and the scent of burning. From now on I will cease speaking. I will only communicate via notes written on bar napkins. These notes will only be mathematical equations of special relativity. My sole caloric intake will come from coffee and lemons.My hair smells like sea salt. I think I just broke my hand punching through a wall. I'm a broken husk of a woman. I'm going to conquer the world. Holy fuck, this fic.”

Yeah, basically. also, this fic only has 225 kudos and very little fandom footprint, which again - TALENT IS NEVER RECOGNISED. I”M MAD.

[something-tofightfor]

Since you said you’re always listening here’s some more about Curt: not only did he drop the ball with Lewis, he straight up just chooses Frank blindly in the Frank Billy divorce. Like... we’re meant to believe the three of them were all friends. Curt and Billy drink together at Frank’s grave. But Curtis keeps Frank being alive a secret while selling Billy out at every turn. But why? Until he shoots him in the shoulder Billy hasn’t done anything to Curtis. (1/2)

Answering everything in one go: 

Lots of thoughts about Frank and Billy and Curtis under the cut.

1. I’ve always wondered why Curtis was so quick to take Frank’s side in the whole thing - and part of me believes it was specifically due to the fact that Frank and Curtis both experienced significant, lasting trauma while overseas/after arriving back home, and their lives changed a great deal. Frank pretty much just talks about how they served together, but Billy flat out says that Curtis saved his ass - and from what we see, Billy isn’t someone that typically would need saving, aside from situations like that ambush, where Frank had to go into that building and clear it to save the entire squad. 

Billy and Curtis do likely spend a ton of time together stateside - both while Frank is presumed dead, and before, too. BUT I’m assuming that Curtis was helping Frank all along - which means that he lied to Billy the whole ass time but was still funding the rent for the support group. I’m actually wondering if part of that money wasn’t secretly being funneled to Frank, just to get him by when things were tough and he had to lay low. 

It truly bothers me that Curtis automatically agrees with what Frank does to get revenge, and has the same warped sense of superiority that Madani does. Frank’s gotta do the hard jobs because neither of them can or will. You’re right - until Billy shoots him, Curtis was on the fringe of everything. Billy was lying and likely dangerous, but he didn’t want to hurt Curtis, even after he found out that Curtis had been lying. Why? Because Billy knew he was in the wrong, even if he’d managed to justify his own actions in his mind ... Curtis’ actions and keeping the news of Frank being alive were also justified, because no matter how close they’d been - Frank was a liability and a threat to Billy ... which meant Bily was unpredictable when it came to Frank - and finding out anything about Frank. 

2. We never hear that Curtis was as close to the Castles as Billy was - so that would make me believe that despite the friendship we see between F/C... Curtis took a back seat to Frank and Billy’s friendship. Maybe it was because C got hurt and didn’t keep going overseas with them? Maybe it was because Billy looked up to Frank so much, and he fit in better with the family? But we never SAW Curtis with the Castles, so we don’t know their dynamic, aside from what the three say to and about each other. That’s tough. If the roles had been reversed, and Curtis had betrayed Frank, it would have made more sense to me that F would have gone to B with the secret - so unless Billy’s grossly overstating his relationship with F... then it’s a surprise to me that Frank didn’t reach out to Billy AND Curtis to let them know he was alive. Unless.... Frank had an idea that Billy was dirty? But that doesn’t seem likely ... because his shock in that warehouse is very believable. OR, Frank’s connection with Billy reminded him too much of the family he lost? IDK. We’ll never know, and that makes it really hard. 

3. Granted - Billy’s participation and involvement in the Rawlins scheme eliminates him from sympathy via Curtis... but Frank always seems to get the benefit of the doubt and an opportunity to explain himself, which shows where Curtis’ loyalties have always been. ALSO. Frank and Curtis knew Billy so well that they’d know he’d go to Curtis...but didn’t know him well enough to see that he was a double agent the whole time? Seems fishy. You obviously know he’s capable of doing what he has to do to survive ... and Frank knew that he was in a bunch of shit in Kandahar ... that he told Curtis about ... put two and two together and save everyone a lot of trouble. 

4. Curtis’ priorities have always seemed a little off to me - the whole thing with trying to “save” Lewis, and “talk sense into” o’connor, constantly lying to Billy, and yet being SHOCKED when he was lied to in return ... it’s really hypocritical. You establish him as a true friend to Frank because of what he was willing to do/how he was willing to respond ... but you AGAIN alienate Billy, and show that no one in his whole goddamn life was straight and honest and treating him well throughout the duration of the relationship. 

5. Ow, my heart at the thought of Billy on that floor. I hope every fucking time Curtis goes into that room, he thinks of what he did and the part he played. Billy did a bunch of bad shit, yes, but in the end? He didn’t understand what he’d done or why he did it fully, and all he wanted - for once in his life - was to not feel truly alone. Fuck Curtis for not even giving him that in his final moments, and defaulting back to Frank to take care of everything. 

6. Yeah, by the end of S2, his priorities shift again. And I can’t fault him at all for wanting to live his life, but ... he agreed to help. And that means sticking it out and doing what he needs to do. (God bless Brett Mahoney.) ... not just thrusting his responsibilities off onto someone else because he doesn’t know what else to do. That’s not how it works. That whole scene with him and Frank and Dinah in that trailer just pisses me off, because ... you’re saying that Billy truly doesn’t know what he did or why (and Curtis knows the truth - not the BS they’ve fed Billy or  the public) .... and still OK with letting him die? Letting Frank finish it? If Billy had been in his right mind and actually had all of his memories, that’s one thing. But he didn’t, and the manipulation was coming in from another angle, and so... you’re doing what you’re doing to someone that isn’t really sure what is motivating them entirely. It’s bullshit. And it’s unfair, because you’re made to feel sympathetic - in at least some capacity for Billy, but then just be alright with literally everyone continuing to fuck him over in the end? 

7. You are absolutely right. There’s no absolutes here. Frank isn’t all good. Billy isn’t all bad. Frank was justified in going after the people  that  were responsible for killing his family,  there’s no question about that - and Billy is included. But Frank LET him live at that carousel for a purpose. Madani’s inability to let that stand when she realized she wasn’t going to get her way when it came to Billy is the only reason that Frank was even back in New York. Billy might have broken out. He might have still resorted to petty crime to cover himself over time, but it was krista that drove him to get revenge on the man that hurt him - without KNOWING why the man hurt him in the first place. Billy not recovering the memory of Frank being the one to hurt him would have changed so many things ...and that was only the case because fucking Dinah brought him back. Curtis withholding that from Billy was likely meant to be for Billy’s own good - so I guess I sort of applaud him for that, but that’s about all the praise I can give, because as soon as Billy found out, even though Curtis was the only one that had firsthand knowledge (Madani did too, but she would have lied through her  teeth if it meant Frank going after Billy again) of Billy’s actual memory loss - he was still OK with Frank continuing this revenge plan. 

It just blows my mind. Thanks for reading through this. There’s so much more I could say, but it’s just me repeating things in a circle.