#its simple in hindsight but damn is it effective

[tyrianluda]

I know the entirety of "Mein Teil" is amazing but there's this specific part that always sticks with me. it's where he's singing of how a cry will ascend to heaven and having the music change to reflect a angelic choir.

and as the part finishes, making the synth resemble that said cry but in a way which distorts it - sounding inhuman and human simultaneously.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Just wanted to say I LOVE your work! Especially with the inclusion of a black reader/character 😭🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

This is a personal lil thought of mine, BUT

John Price wouldn’t say he was dating a black woman, but there would be signs. Even though his style would be fine beforehand, He’d be dressing nicer, his hair and beard would always be well groomed and overall put together.

I think Gaz would be the first to peep something different from his Captain cuz he recognizes the work of his own people lol

And you're right because suddenly this man's beard is lined up too nicely and that damn hat is gone. Check it below the cut love.

Rating: gen audience

It all started a few months ago with a simple, "Hey Captain?" Johnny says, "Nice cologne, the hens in the media bay can't stop talking about it."

Price only shrugged, not really paying attention, "Just trying something new."

Kyle agrees, it's new, and he thinks it fits his Captain nicely.

Then, things escalate from that one-off comment.

Kyle is perplexed. Confused. Genuinely thrown for a loop because why is his Captain sporting a tapered fade that connects tastefully to his beard? With the side burns fading into the connect?

Kyle just shruggs it off as someone at his boss' super cuts trying and talking him into something new.

Only the new hair style stays and there are plenty of women and men staring at him with lust filled eyes.

The next thing Kyle noticed was the glittering shine of a simple gold chain around John's neck. It's thin, and within regulations, the clasps are too small for his co's large hands to actually put on. Kyle peeps the little gold cross that's just dangling there when he leans over the desk to point out things in their mission dockets. Hm when did he find religion? It's not really his business.

Okay what the actual fuck? Kyle is wondering where John heard the phrase "Do I look like Boo Boo the fool" to be able to understand that he needs to not answer that question with anything other than "no ma'am". They are working with another task force that's headed by an older black woman who's a force to be reckoned with. But that's beside the point because, since when did he learn that and whom did he learn it from?

John Price isn't one to actually keep up with eating lunch at work. Kyle remembers having to drag and threaten and get Simon and Soap to help him get their leader to at least try and eat lunch and not work through it. Nowadays? This man brings in lunch, and it's not what you expect. What Kyle is expecting, well...he's not really sure what he is expecting, but seeing this man eat a fried plantain sends him.

It all comes to a head when the four of them are leaving a debrief. They are shipping out at the start of next week. Set to be gone for like maybe a few months. Johnny is begging asking for them all to go out for lunch and Price only raises an eyebrow.

"Can't today Soap." Price says as they exit the office building. His eyes scan the parking lot, and a smile breaks onto his face at the sight of a shiny black car. "I've got plans."

Now Kyle knows how to put two and two together to get four. He's had his suspicions, but the reality of John Price even dating never crosses his mind. He really thought it was just the effects of him and Soap teasing him for being an out of touch old man. But no...he crosses the parking lot and opens the car door to help out a gorgeous brown beauty. There's no telling how old she could be because Kyle knows black doesn't crack (he's often called baby face...its why he refuses to shave off the little facial hair he has). Johnny is shocked and Simon just grunts out a small "huh?" as they watch their captain help his girl into the passenger side of the car.

"In hindsight." Kyle smiles and says as they watch the car pull off, "That new cologne he started wearing months ago should have let us know far before the tapered fade."

[tokiro07]

Ichi the Witch ch.9 thoughts

[Shark's Mouth + Lack of Fashion Sense ÷ Threat of Being Turned into Furniture x Height = TRIPLE SALCHOW!]

(Topics: narrative progression - course correction)

Okay, so I was wrong about Kumugi getting the spotlight here. In hindsight it makes sense, this is literally the first real trial that Ichi is undergoing, it would be a little strange for Kumugi to be the one to win the day, but I don't think it would have been a bad idea to establish her value within her introductory arc, y'know?

Still, since this is supposed to be endearing Ichi to Kumugi and not Kumugi to us, this is probably the better call on Nishi's part, especially since it gives us more time for Kumugi's characterization to simmer before reaching its inevitable boiling point down the line

Also, I kept talking about Kumugi's more mundane skills being indicative of her true value to the team, so I suppose something unrelated like "fashion sense" wouldn't be a good way of capitalizing on that theme

In lieu of what I wanted to see from Kumugi, I am very happy with what we're seeing from Ichi

Thinking Inside the Fish

Kumugi took Hisame's challenge at face-value: dress her up to look fabulous. Desscaras tried to work around the challenge: convince her that beauty comes from within. But Ichi is taking a whole different approach that even Hisame didn't see coming: making Hisame herself fabulous

I said last week that Ichi probably doesn't have much fashion sense because he most likely values function over form, and I maintain that's probably correct, but I won't deny that the pelt he wore in his initial outfit looked pretty damn nice

The implication of Ichi wearing pelts is that, as one might expect, Ichi is well aware of how to properly skin an animal and make clothes of them. He may need some help from the ladies on his team to make something that actually looks fashionable, but he's no stranger to working with animal skins

You all reading this might be thinking that pelts come from mammals, and you'd be right, but it's also not unheard of to make clothes from fish skins. Anyone who's read Golden Kamuy is familiar with cepker and cepur, salmon-skin shoes and coats respectively, so it's not hard to imagine that Ichi figured out how to do the same thing

It helps that Hisame is already designed to look like a dress with the lace on her fins, so the transition from fish to outfit should be fairly simple and surprisingly elegant

Aside from twisting the words of the challenge, the other thing I want to highlight is that Ichi has already found another new use for Inazuri, channeling the electricity through his knife-wand to create effectively a laser sword. This is a huge departure from simply electrocuting a target, practically becoming a new spell by combining the base spell's electrical properties with the properties of its medium. This leads me to wonder if the form of a wand informs its function, like if Ichi and Desscaras will be more prone to combat magic because their wands are weapons while Kumugi may find more supportive uses of the same spells with her pen-wand. That's something I'll speculate on more later, though

For now...that's really all I have to say about this chapter! I was wrong last week, and Ichi's doing something cool, but we won't have the payoff or narrative implications until next chapter, so...yeah! Easy week, I guess!

Until next time, let's enjoy life!

[milla984]

Like Water For His Fire

Summary: When Ram goes MIA you get nervous... but he's got a very good explanation and you can't really stay mad at him

Pairing: modern AU Ramaraju x fem!reader

Category: smut (NSFW, 18+, MDNI)

TW/CW: brief mention of anxiety, mentions of marking, kissing, unprotected penetrative sex

Word Count: 2k

7:56.

The sunset paints the sky orange red and from the bedroom window you can see its reflection on the surface of the nearby lake, as the evening breeze raises silvery ripples on the water. Adjusting the strap of Ram’s tank top on your shoulder you blow a strand of hair off your face then check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time: no texts. Zero missed calls.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” you repeat under your breath.

You sit on the coverlet and hug his pillow. There’s usually something soothing about putting on his clothes or smelling his perfume - today, however, neither his old top nor the faint traces of his sandalwood and orange peel aftershave on the pillowcase prove to be very effective at keeping your anxiety under control.

You switch to a full alert state when you hear the entry door opening, followed by heavy footsteps. Seconds later Ram stands in front of you looking exhausted, his sleeves rolled up and the first buttons of his shirt undone, and collapses on his side of the bed.

“What happened? Are you okay?” you ask, still a bit nervous.

He nods in silent assent.    

“I tried to call you, why did you turn off your phone?” you ask again and he fumbles in his pocket to hold up the answer, shaped like an intricate spider web of cracks across the black screen.

“I’m getting in the car and this idiot does a swan dive into a puddle,” he explains, “fifteen minutes later I’m stuck in traffic in Madeenaguda. Damn road works!”

It takes a little bit longer than usual for your heart to stop pounding in your stomach and ears. He’s been late in the past but an hour of radio silence forced you to consider all sorts of horrible scenarios, and you need to clear your mind of their negative influence.

“In hindsight… not the best route choice,” he adds, noticing you’re being too quiet. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.”

You shrug: during off-peak hours the NH 65 is the fastest way back, meaning he was trying to come home as soon as he could. And it’s not his fault his phone died on him. “You know me, I worry too much.”

You also care a lot about him, which is why he doesn’t need to hear you live in constant fear of being contacted by the notification officer of his department - a possibility he’s even less likely to discuss than you are.

“Are we good?” he replies, lowering his thick lashes and giving you an innocent doe-eyed stare.

You can see where this is going: the simple thought of it erases all the previous distress and makes you weak at the knees. You throw the pillow at him, practicing your best impression of a seductive pout. “Mister, you’re the Police Guy… why don’t you figure it out?!”

Ram props himself up on one elbow so he can tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. He brushes his thumb across your lower lip, his personal way of telling you he gathered all the evidence that the mere sight of his forearms always lights you up like a neon sign powered by libido. You’re not mad at him - you’re horny for him.

Cheeky bastard.

Needless to say, his shirt has to go; you unfasten the entire row of buttons in a heartbeat and help him take it off. ‘Mouthwatering’ is the word to describe his bare chest, and how on earth does he manage to still look steaming hot after spending a full day at work and a ridiculous amount of time in his car is beyond you.

You nibble on his earlobe before you lick him below the jaw, descending along his Adam’s apple, the muscles of his neck and the dimple between the collarbones. 

You could spend the whole evening teasing his nipples, forced to contain the urge to sink your teeth into his skin because he’s so sensitive he would scream in pain if you bit him; his petite buds harden at the lightest touch so you circle the areolas with the tip of your tongue and suck delicately, twirling a few dark hairs on his navel around your fingers.

“I’m happy you’re here,” you whisper.

His palm caresses your nape, then his mouth reaches yours and you both engage in a playful competition for dominance: now that he’s in your arms you only want to hold him tight and tell him everything’s alright, but he’s impetuous and clings to you as if you’re pure spring water, bound to tame the fire raging inside of him.

There’s no doubt he figured out ages ago the main reason why you wear his clothes or hug his pillow if he’s away: you crave his body, his presence, his weight on top of you, and it isn’t just a matter of lust. He’s not used to be open and vocal about his feelings, nevertheless he’s proven multiple times he’s the kind of man who looks out for the important people in his life and you’re willing to do the same for him; you’ve become each other’s fulfillment of a mutual request for affection and the many positive aspects of your physical relationship are a reflection of a deeper bond.

It’s Ram who wins in the end and traps you under him. He doesn’t bother to take the old tank top off and lifts the hem up to reach your soft belly; once he glides past your mound of Venus you squirm in anticipation, almost hitting him in the chin.

He smirks and you’re tempted to slap the living hell out of him: being so fuckable should be declared illegal.

“Don’t make me kick you for real,” you joke, and Ram smiles again.

Without breaking eye contact he puts both his hands on your hips and rolls down your panties while you lift your tailbone to help him; he pinches your left ankle and lifts your foot, placing your leg on his shoulder.

Reality fades in a blurry ensemble of the last rays of sunset behind the clouds, outside the window, and the hypnotic white noise coming from the a/c unit as you let your fingers run through his hair. Having it ruffled when he’s going down on you is a major turn on for him and you’re dying to please him in return, since you’ve never met another man who was this passionate about the idea of eating you out; he’s also into being praised as a reward for his dedication and you’re happy to oblige, cooing. “You’re so good at this, pandu.”

Ram glances at you, mesmerized. The gentle strokes of his lips grow more and more intense, then he starts to flicker his tongue at such a fast pace that your ragged breath turns into whimpers, to which he replies with low, throaty growls.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he hums, his head still buried between your thighs and his luscious beard, sprinkled with a little gray, rubbing so well on your clit.

You grab a big chunk of his hair at the roots and tug to draw his attention, careful not to hurt him. In your private system of non verbal communication it’s a signal to stop, so he rises to his knees and leans forward for a kiss. You love to taste your ‘sweet nectar’ (as it was referred to in many of the romance novels you read as a teenager) on his mouth; your adult consciousness knows it’s salty, tangy and it’s got a hint of musk to it - still, it’s you and he always enjoys it like you’re a delicious treat.

You also know another part of him is hungry for you, so you make him lay on his back to undo his trousers and pull them down, together with his underwear. He’s hard and impatient, aching to have you wrapped around him. Half of you wants to put you both out of your misery, the other half is determined to take full advantage of your position: you steady yourself on the headboard and straddle him, but first you tuck his leaking cock against his stomach.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” you mumble as you slowly buck your hips, moving up and down his length.

This is plain torture for Ram and he clasps his hands at the old tank top, squeezing like a schoolboy who’s just discovered the amazing, silky roundness of your breasts. He’s adorable when his self-control begins to falter and soon his deep groans make you so wet it hurts.

“Jaanu…” he whines, desperate for release.

Using the headboard to keep your balance you guide him to the right spot before you lower yourself onto him. It’s your turn to fondle his chest and play with the dark trail of fuzz blossoming on his sternum and plunging to his groin; every time you separate you can’t stand to be apart and it’s not long before you grind on him to feel his coarse hair tickle your sensitive skin.

You look at him, his beautiful eyes closed and his teeth biting on his lips. He’s holding you so tight by the waist you’re sure he’ll leave a couple of marks and they’re all signs he’s trying to hold back. “I-I’m–”

“Do it,” you cut him off while you pick up your speed.

Ram throws his head backwards and it’s a sight to behold: his usual, brooding self disappears and all that’s visible on his face is peace and content, even if it lasts for a few seconds. You don’t stop rocking your hips until a familiar warmth flows inside of you, and moments later he wraps his hand around the back of your neck to pull you close.

He lifts his knees to dig his feet into the mattress and starts thrusting, set on a mission to give you one of the best orgasms of your life; he drinks the pure pleasure you’re pouring into his mouth with your loud moans, which he eagerly accepts as an incentive to pound you harder and faster.

“I want to make you come,” he mutters on your lips.

The power he has over you is unexplainable: his voice is what sends you over the edge in the end, gasping for air when a powerful jolt of ecstasy hits you and the tension leaving your body almost causes you to collapse on top of him. In fact you flop on your side, breathless and drained of the energy required to pass for a living and functioning human being; your brain is still engaged in the aftermath of the Big O and the single detail you’re able to process is one of your legs, resting across his lap.

Ram snaps out of the post-coital stupor first, in time to pick his shirt off the floor and help you clean your inner thighs - saving you both the trouble of dealing with a complete mess later. The pensive frown is back and you wipe away the shiny trickle of sweat running down his temple, but he’s so focused on what he’s doing he doesn’t seem to notice. 

Once he’s finished cleaning himself up he fixes his trousers in a hurry throwing the shirt back on the floor to snuggle against you, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders to trace the outline of his muscles using your fingertips.

“Excuse me… what?!” you laugh, since he’s got his face pressed on your bosom and the words come out muffled if he speaks.

“I think I love you, bangaaram,” he repeats, tilting his head up.

Your heart skips a beat.

He looks at you with his brooding expression again, so you find yourself lost in his dark, soulful eyes for the longest instant. Then you cup his face in your hands and rub your nose against his, kissing him so lightly that your touch is like April rain on his mouth.

“I love you too, Ram.”

@ramcharantitties, @nyotamalfoy, @taylorklaine, @bheemaxrama, @ladydarkey, @astrafangs, @ronaldofandom

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Come to Your Senses (Strange x Reader) - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Stay.

Song Inspiration

Request?: YES (for @jamiethenerdymonster)

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.0k+

Warnings: MAJOR MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS SPOILERS!! Infrequent language, some suggestive content this chapter, Mordo being a little whiny baby (because why not)

Summary: To say Mordo was the last person Stephen was thrilled to see would be an understatement. As he and America consult with the emerald sorcerer for assistance on their adventure, Stephen gets a little more than he bargained for. (gif by Tenor - link in sources)

“You know him?” America asked as she stepped closer to Stephen’s side. 

“Yeah.” Stephen nodded. “Mordo. He was actually the first guy who let me into Kamar-Taj a few years ago.”

“Oh!” America smiled. “That’s great!”

“Yeah, and then he snapped and dedicated his life trying to kill me.” 

“Oh.” There was a period of silence as the young multiversal traveller turned her attention to the figure standing across from them. “Great.”

Like the statue next to him, this version of Mordo had some similarities to his counterpart in your universe. He was dressed entirely in a deep forest green and gold outfit, similar to that of the God of Mischief. He still wore the Vaulting Boots of Valtor, one of the first mystical relics Stephen had come into contact with during his few months at Kamar Taj. A green cloak now draped across his shoulders, too. However, the most dramatic difference this Mordo had to his multiversal counterpart was his hair. Unlike the traitor Stephen had needed to fight years ago, his hair grew out in thick braided strands that ended just above the small of his back. 

As Mordo drew nearer to Stephen and America, the elder sorcerer subtly stepped in front of the girl. It was a simple act of protection, but her safety was his primary concern. 

“I always suspected this day would come,” Mordo said as he approached. 

“You did?” Stephen tilted his head, raising his hands ever so slightly in case of a surprise attack. Just because it was a new universe, it didn’t mean his enemy would end up not…being…his enemy again. 

“Yes.” Mordo clasped his hands in front of him. “Because you always suspected this day would come.” A soft sigh escaped him followed by a sad smile. “My brother.” 

Needless to say, if there was one thing Stephen Strange didn’t expect to be doing today, it was getting a hug from Mordo. “Alright,” Stephen drawled out, awkwardly placing his hands on the other sorcerer’s back.

“Come in,” Mordo said as he leaned away, “and tell me all about your universe.”

While he walked away, Stephen turned to shrug at America. She looked just as surprised as he felt on the inside. How much of this world was going to be turned upside down? “You go on red,” he remarked halfheartedly before following Mordo into the Sanctum.

In hindsight, Stephen knew it probably wasn’t the best to trust the man in green. Even in a new universe, there was always a hint of danger to Mordo. As they sat in the living room of this Sanctum, Stephen felt a chill run down his spine as he lifted a cup of tea to his lips. The liquid had a much more bitter flavour than he was accustomed to in the past. Though not unwelcome, it took him a period of time to adjust to the taste. 

“We have a Darkhold in this universe, too,” Mordo explained after hearing their journey. “I guard it here in this Sanctum. We would never risk a weapon as dangerous as the Darkhold to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Damn right,” Stephen blew on his tea before taking another sip, silently willing himself to not make a face at the taste once again. 

“But if your Darkhold is anything like ours,” Mordo continued. “I’m afraid she can do much worse than just summon monsters to come after you here.”

“What do you mean?” America asked with a frown.

As Mordo began to explain the importance of dreamwalking and its effects upon a person’s reality, Stephen felt his eyelids beginning to droop. Had he really gotten that little sleep last night after that nightmare which technically wasn’t a nightmare? He lifted a hand to his temple and rubbed a gentle circle against the skin he found there. When did he start getting headaches?

“W-what do you know about the Book of the Vishanti?” he asked Mordo, mentally cursing at his unintentional stutter. 

“The Darkhold’s antithesis?” The sorcerer opposite him tilted his head with a slightly friendly smile. “It can give a sorcerer whatever power they need to vanquish their enemy.

Stephen nodded and attempted to get up. That proved to be a big mistake. The room around him began to spin and his head felt stuffy. It was almost worse than the one time you had convinced him to order a series of tequila shots the night before a big exam – something he vowed to never do again. “I need your help to get me to it,” he said with slurred speech.  

“I’m sorry, Stephen,” Mordo said with a stare. “But I hope you, of all people, understand that it is not Wanda Maximoff who threatens our reality. It’s the two of you.”

The spinning grew worse and before long it was difficult for Stephen to even stand on two feet. He watched helplessly as America flopped unconscious against the armchair she was seated in. He staggered a bit, eyes glaring daggers at Mordo. “You son of a bitch,” he slurred. In his mind, he heard your voice begging him to fight it, reminding him of his true strength. He tried to, really he did. But the feeling soon overcame him and he landed backwards to see the Sands of Nisanti in an hourglass.

“She’s coming…” The words escaped Stephen’s lips as he allowed his eyes to close. 

As crazy as it was, Stephen could have sworn he heard your voice angrier than he ever heard it before. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“It is what our Stephen would have wanted us to do.”

“This isn’t our Stephen. This is madness, why can’t we just…”

That was the last he heard as the darkness consumed him entirely. 

  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  = 

“Stephen…” he heard your voice call out to him in the darkness. “Oh, Stephen…” 

A low groan sounded in his throat as Stephen turned on his side. He lifted a hand in the air and waved it lazily. Wherever he was, he was finally in a comfortable position and felt like he could lie there for hours. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that five minutes ago, silly.” There was a soft poking at his side. “Come on, we didn’t come all this way to stay in the hotel room.”

“I thought that was what a honeymoon was for.” Stephen smirked with his eyes still closed. “Staying in bed all day.”

There was a brief pause. “Okay, fine,” you relented. “But you’re using the bed for the wrong reasons.”

“Would you like me to change those reasons?”

Another pause. “Maybe?” your timid voice caused him to sit up and stretch, hands reaching for your own. There was a clinking of metal as your left hand intertwined with his own. It was a sound he could get used to hearing every morning. 

“Is that hesitation I sense, Mrs. Strange?” Another smug smirk wormed its way onto his facial features. “You sure weren’t hesitating a few hours ago. In fact, you were rather sure about what you wanted.” A playful whack against his shoulders caused Stephen to laugh. 

“Stephen,” you whined. “Can we please go explore? I mean, it’s not every day we can explore Greece.”

“Technically-”

“Without magic?” You tugged at his arm gently. “Come on, come on, let’s go.”

The light shone in through the window, bringing a bright glow to your face. It highlighted all of the best parts of you in Stephen’s opinion. Your smile was as dazzling as ever, hair cascading down your back, still curled from the extensions you had put in for the wedding. His gaze flickered to the floor where your wedding dress still hung, surprisingly undamaged from your previous night’s activities. For the first time in his life, Stephen truly felt happy. He could get used to seeing you beside him, feeling your skin against his own. 

A smile illuminated your face even more as you leaned closer to capture his lips with your own. The sensation was like heaven. It was like the softest texture against his face and he couldn’t help but reach up to cradle your cheeks in his shaking hands. His eyelids slipped shut as he pulled you closer, eager for more direct contact. As the moment stretched on, Stephen heard a knock on the door. 

“It’s probably room service,” you mumbled against his lips. “I ordered breakfast for us.”

Stephen grunted and pulled you closer in response. “They can come back later.” He was in far too much bliss to let you go now. Your kiss was like getting drunk on the finest wine he’s ever had in his life. He never wanted it to end. 

Yet the knocking transformed into banging. From the other side of the door, Stephen heard the muffled sound of someone calling his name. They sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Stephen,” they called. “Stephen get up.”

A sigh escaped your lips as he began an attack on your neck with his lips. He was determined to get to know every inch of you and wasn’t about to let whoever was behind that door prevent him from doing so. What surprised him was you leaning away from his touch, eyes staring directly into his own. “You need to go play hero,” you said softly, “don’t you?”  

“I could stay here,” came his dutiful response. 

“As much as I love you and want you to stay, I know I have to share you with the rest of the world. So-”

“Say that again,” he requested, eyes wide. 

 “I have to share you with the rest of the world?” You raised an eyebrow in confusion. 

“No,” he pleaded gently. “The other thing. The first thing you just said.”

A look of realisation spread against your facial features. A soft ‘o’ formed against your lips as you leaned closer to his ears. “I love you,” you whispered, lips curling into a smile. “Now, go be a hero, Doctor Strange.” 

  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  = 

The bright lights were blinding as Stephen awoke with a startled gasp. Foolishly, he spun his head around to rapidly search for you. What he found was a clear glass cage in an otherwise monotone grey and blue environment. Some kind of lab, he mused to himself. His hands were restricted by a pair of silver and green cuffs, the familiar glittering reminding Stephen of the hourglass of sand he noticed shortly before passing out earlier. 

Oddly enough, that wasn’t the part of the situation that was bothering him. It was the fact he was dreaming about you which was causing him the most confusion. Not only were you with him in his dream, you were in the same bed. You were his wife. If what he had learned during the last day had any truth to it, somewhere in the multiverse the two of you were married…

…and he didn’t hate the thought of it, not in the slightest.

“Hey!” America’s voice shouted as the thudding returned. It was her Stephen’s consciousness had heard in his dream. Her frustration was easily recognizable as her fist made continuous contact with the glass. When she noticed he was awake, she tossed her hands up to Stephen and shook her head. “This universe sucks!”     

The elder sorcerer attempted to free himself from the cuffs, but it was to no avail. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two lab coat outfitted individuals having a hushed conversation across from his containment unit. “Hey!” he shouted, taking a moment to ram against the glass himself. “Hey, lab coat! Where the hell are we? 

Look, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re trying to do here,  but these situations don’t usually work well for nameless scientists. So just- ” Stephen trailed off when one of the scientists turned around to reveal a very redheaded version of Christine Palmer. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that he was allowing himself to be in love with her anymore, because in truth he wasn’t. The only reason he had dragged you along to that wedding was to let her go once and for all. He allowed himself to silently stare for a moment before breathing out a single word: “Christine?”

“Hello Stephen,” she replied, a tight smile on her lips.  

“Ay dios,” America murmured from her cell. Stephen was pretty sure she murmured something else under her breath in Spanish, but he honestly couldn’t tell what. Not that it mattered anyway. 

“Ms. Chavez,” Christine-But-Not-Christine replied with a slight nod. “To answer your question, you are in a highly secure research facility. The two of you, along with your sentient cloak, are here for surveillance and testing.”

“Uh, I’m, uh, I’m sorry,” Stephen winced at his stuttering. “Testing?”

“Well yes. You’re visitors from another universe. Your magnetic signatures could be radioactive. You could be carrying diseases we just don’t have treatments for. Hence these amazing polycarbonate fishbowls.”

“I assume I have you to thank for…these, then?” Stephen held out his restrained wrists and moved them in a circle. 

“Ah, yes.” This Christine nodded and walked closer to the glass. “I developed those from the Nisanti, one of 838-Stephen’s magical relics.”

“838 Stephen…” He couldn’t help but to chuckle. “What is that, some kind of cyborg version of me?”

“No. 838 is this universe’s version of Stephen Strange. Your universe has been designated as 616.” Christine walked over to the monitors near his cell and brought up a series of images. “It’s fascinating. Your injuries are similar, but there are still a variety of differences between them.”

“What…were we in this universe?” Stephen hadn’t meant for the question to slip out. His curiosity got the best of him. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Were we together…here? In this universe.”

When Christine didn’t answer, Stephen gave a sigh and rubbed his chin. “Listen, someone from my universe is coming. And she is going to rip this place apart atom by atom until she gets her hands on that girl,” Stephen said. “So I don’t care if you’re from the Avengers or SHIELD.”

“We’re neither,” Mordo’s voice echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of mechanical movement. When Stephen turned to look at the other sorcerer, he noticed he was accompanied by a series of silver mechanical robots. “Stephen Strange, the Illuminati will see you now.”

“...the Illumiwhat-y?”

  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  = 

Meeting the Illuminati was one thing for Stephen. It was certainly unexpected, but he had hoped for more. The knock-off version of the Avengers certainly knew how to make things interesting with a series of dramatic reveals. That was something Stephen couldn’t argue. Although, he still couldn’t shake the thought they were all a little too sure of themselves. When he had first met the Avengers almost six years ago, Stephen could tell they were still working through their own challenges. This team before him almost seemed confident of their successes and were more than ready to send him to his death. 

“Stephen,” the figure of Reed Richards stated from his seat. “Your arrival here confuses and destabilises this reality. The larger the footprint you leave behind, the greater the risk of an Incursion.”

“Incursion?” Stephen questioned. 

 “An Incursion occurs when the boundary between two universes erodes and they collide, destroying one or both universes entirely.”

“Your Alternate self created the Illuminati,” Captain Carter supplied in her English accent. “To make the difficult decisions that no one else could. Today we’re here to determine what to do with you…and the child.”

“So before we vote.” Captain Marvel lifted an eyebrow in challenge. “If you got anything serious to say, now’s the time.”

“Yeah, I do,” Stephen shifted his weight from foot to foot. The pain in his hands grew stronger the more time he was prevented from using magic. It had been a while since he had felt like this, but for America’s sake, he needed to power through it. “If it’s Incursions you’re worried about, do you seriously think I’m a bigger threat than the Scarlet Witch?”

“Oh, we can handle your little witch if she decides to dreamwalk,” the cosmic hero said with a confident air. 

“No, no you cannot.” Stephen stated. “Not unless you give me the Book of Vishanti.”

“We appreciate your concern, Stephen, but it’s not the Scarlet Witch we fear,” Reed tried to explain. “In our experience, the greatest danger to the multiverse, it turns out, is Doctor Strange.”

That caused the sorcerer to freeze in confusion. “Wait, your Doctor Strange? Earth’s Mightiest Hero who died defeating Thanos?” 

Before anything else can be said, there was a slamming sound of a door being pushed open followed by aggressive footsteps. A figure stomped through the shadows, fabric billowing out from behind them in their haste. The moment they stepped into the light, Stephen almost forgot how to breathe. 

Suddenly you were there. You stood in front of him in a radiant blue and silver attire, this universe’s Cloak of Levitation hovering around your shoulder. At your sides, your brown leather wrapped hands clenched into fists as you paid him no mind. Your gaze was focused intently on Reed and his English companion. 

“How dare you call a meeting in order without me?!” you exclaimed, obviously enraged.

“Mordo warned us of your reaction to the use of the Sands-” Captain Carter attempted to diffuse the situation, but was cut off by you holding up a hand. 

“So you use this as an excuse to exclude me from the proceedings?! You’re lucky that I’ve even provided you access to this location.” Without another word you walked over to an empty seat and sat down with crossed arms. “He doesn’t even know what happened.”

“The young sorcerer is correct,” a voice echoed throughout the chamber. A moment later, a large yellow motorised wheelchair made its way behind the other members’ chairs before coming to a stop in the open space. Seated inside was an elderly man with sharp eyes that appeared to pierce right through Stephen’s soul. “We should tell him the truth.” 

“May I present our final two members,” Mordo said after clearing his throat. “Professor Charles Xavier and Master Strange, Sorcerer Supreme.” 

A chill ran down Stephen’s spine as your eyes locked onto his. “That’s not how our Stephen died.”

=================

Author's note: Alright, you little maniacs. I thought I had some more time to get my posts scheduled out here, but what did you do? You doubled the number of interactions for the challenge in three days. *tsks* I think I need to make things a bit harder this time. If we can get 200 interactions by Wednesday, you'll get the next chapter released earlier than Friday (yes, you got an extra chapter this week. When you get it, though, is entirely up to you ;)). I want to see a healthy number of reblogs this week, please!! It's rewarding to me as an author!

As for this chapter, I freaking loved writing that dream sequence. I knew the second I rewatched MoM, this scene needed to be written. It just had to. I am super excited for you to meet this variant version of the reader in 838. She was super fun to write for and her interactions with other characters are just...they're great. Not to mention, she's a Strange? *smirk*

If you enjoyed this chapter, make sure to leave a comment and a reblog down below! If you have a friend you think would enjoy this story, tag them in the comments, too! What do you think is going to happen next?

Until next time, my lovely little maniacs sparks!

[seijorhi]

Nothing Fucks with My Baby

The (not so) long awaited Hitman AU 👀

Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader

TW Blood, minor violence, referenced/implied murder, stalking, implied kidnapping

Iwaizumi has one rule. No kids.

They could be the damn antichrist for all he cares, if they’re underage, they’re off limits. Anyone else is fair game - kind old ladies, rich corrupt businessmen, housewives, politicians. He doesn’t give a shit so long as he gets paid, and paid well.

You were fair game.

He never cares why. Iwa has better things to do than listen to meaningless justifications and vendettas. They make no difference either way - he’s being paid to kill, so he’ll kill, ruthlessly and without prejudice. All he wants is a name, a picture and whether or not they want brains splattered on pavement or something a little more refined. An address doesn’t go astray, but he’ll work with what he’s got, it’s the reason he can charge a fucking premium.

But you… you weren’t what he expected. He’s used to filth. Liars, cheaters, bottom of the barrel trash. Every once in a while some poor idiot gets caught up in something they don’t understand and ultimately pay the price for it, but good people don’t often end up in files splayed across Iwaizumi’s desk. He’s not used to innocence, and as far as he’s concerned, you’re as close as they come.

He supposes that things might have been different if they’d wanted you dead quickly. 

Publicly. 

But they didn’t want that. They wanted you to disappear without a fucking trace. It wasn’t a kindness - it just meant more work for him. It meant that instead of staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle perched in the window of an empty apartment across the street from yours, he’d have to get his hands dirty.

If you want somebody to blame, sweetheart, why don’t you start with them?

In hindsight, he probably didn’t need to go inside the little coffee joint you worked at. He could lie to himself and say that it was an excuse to get closer to you, to see if you had friends at your work who might try and get in the way, but the simple truth was that he’d been up since four in the fucking morning, and he might just have shot somebody out of sheer irritation if he didn’t get a hit of caffeine and soon. 

Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?

And it wasn’t like you were going to recognise him. Three days in, and as far as Iwa can tell, you don’t have the slightest idea that you were being watched, much less that the pair of eyes watching belonged to a cold hearted killer. 

People tend to be a little more scared when they sense he’s coming - there’s a kind of innate fear that seeps from every pore as they scurry about trying to hide, trying to put off the inevitable - but you, you’re just blissfully oblivious, flitting around with those wide doe eyes like you haven’t got a damn care in the world. 

He honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to envy or pity you for that sweet naivety. 

Currently though, he’s more concerned with whether or not you can make a half decent cup of coffee. 

“I asked for an extra hot latte.”

Or he would be, if the asshole with slicked back hair and an expensive suit hadn’t cut him off just as he was about to step up to the counter to shove the coffee you’d just made him back in your face. He watches your eyes widen for a split second before you smile - apologetic and demure before you can even open your mouth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it not hot enough?” 

The moment the words leave your lips, you all but flinch. Both you and he know that despite the fact you mean them sincerely (which kind of surprises him, considering that if your situations were reversed he wouldn’t have been nearly so generous) they’re a mistake.

The asshole sneers down at you like you’re nothing more than scum on his shoes. “If it was fucking hot enough, I wouldn’t be wasting my time complaining, now would I?”

Even before he found himself dabbling in his current line of work, Iwaizumi never considered himself much of a knight in shining armour. The world’s a shitty place, it’s not his job to go around fixing things and softening blows. He’s not a cold, emotionless bastard, as most people assume, he just has better things to do than run around playing a damn bleeding heart and sticking his neck out for strangers. It’s not his problem and as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t owe anybody shit.

Impassive olive eyes watch as you try and backtrack, apologising again, offering to make him a new drink, explaining that the reason the coffee wasn’t as hot as he wanted was because you were trying not to scorch the milk- for naught.

You in your naive little world don’t seem to realise that the asshole doesn’t actually give a shit about the coffee. He wants a power trip, and you’ve given him the perfect excuse. He wants to yell and scream and stamp his feet and take all of his repressed anger and feelings of inadequacy out on you so that he can feel like a big man. He wants to see you whimper and cry and bow down before him.

It’s pathetic, but Iwa’s content to watch it play out, drumming his fingers against the wallet in his hand, more irritated with the delay in getting his own coffee than the outburst itself-

Until the asshole reaches for his latte. 

Iwa’s good at reading people, predicting their movements before they’re even made. It’s a necessary skill in his profession, one that’s saved his skin more times than he can count. He sees the little vein in the asshole’s temple throb, his jaw tighten, and the moment his hand twitches towards the still steaming cup of coffee, Iwa knows that he fully intends on throwing it at you.

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to, an iron grip wrapping around the asshole’s wrist, squeezing. He glares, sneering down at the man who all of a sudden doesn’t seem quite so angry, much less imposing. 

“Get out,” he hisses.

It’s not a request.

But the asshole either has a death wish or he’s trying to salvage what’s left of his fragile ego, because his beady eyes narrow and he opens his mouth - no doubt to spew more vitriolic bullshit.

Iwa twists.

Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that it sends the man to his knees, whimpering like a kicked puppy, desperate to relieve the pressure on his wrist. 

“I said,” he begins, his voice colder than ice, “get out.”

Yet he doesn’t spare the asshole another glance, not even as he releases his grip and the man skitters away like he’s been burned. The cafe is deathly silent, and without even glancing around, Iwa knows that they’ve managed to draw the attention of most if not all of its patrons.

And for once, he doesn’t give a single fuck.

Iwa’s eyes, his attention, all of it is focused entirely on you - on the wide eyed, stunned look on your pretty face. It’s a violent outburst, not nearly close to what he’s truly capable of, but in the quiet little cafe on a dreary Tuesday morning, glaringly out of place.

Will you burst into tears, he wonders. Ignore it, brush it aside and pretend it never happened? Stutter out more apologies for causing a fuss, for making a simple mistake? He somehow doubts you’ll be the type to scold him for it. No, you’re far too meek for that.

You surprise him, smiling slowly instead, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm.

It’s a far cry from the contrite air you’d graced the asshole with earlier. It’s hesitant, nervous, but it’s very much real, and Iwa finds it difficult to stop the corners of his own lips from twitching upwards in response.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He inclines his head a fraction. “Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t charge him for the coffee, even when he practically shoves the bills across the counter into your hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” you shyly parrot back at him, and he almost fucking snorts when there’s a warmed chocolate chip muffin waiting with his coffee when it’s ready.

He’s being paid forty grand to make sure you’re dead by the end of the week, and you’re here giving him free muffins. Oikawa would see the humour in that. Of course, Oikawa would have absolutely no qualms in charming the absolute hell out of you seconds before he pulled the trigger. Realistically, he shouldn’t either. It’s his job, nothing personal.

To say he enjoys killing is probably a stretch, but he takes pride in it. Iwa’s good at what he does. It’s simple. Easy - so long as he follows his own rules.

This shouldn’t be any different. You’re cute, he supposes, in an odd sort of way. Innocent.

Endearing.

It shouldn’t have an effect on him. 

It doesn’t, but-

He could have killed you two days ago. He’d be willing to bet good money that he could’ve walked right to your apartment, knocked on your door, made up some bullshit excuse on the spot and you would have smiled and invited him right inside. 

And it’s not like you’d stand a chance of being able to fight him off.

Over the past few days there have been at least twelve different moments that Iwaizumi could have stepped in and snuffed that pretty little life of yours out without making a fuss and it would have been easy.

But he hadn’t.

There’s a difference between surveillance and stalking - it’s a fine line, a blurred one maybe, but it’s there all the same. After yet another night spent camped out watching you move about your apartment - cooking dinner for yourself, zoning out on the couch and fiddling with your phone while the tv plays in the background before finally curling up in bed in the early hours of the morning - Iwa comes to the realisation that he’s crossed it. 

He wonders why it doesn’t bother him like it should.

The next day, he goes back to your little coffee shop. There’s no muffin this time, but your face brightens when he walks through the door and when he goes to pick up his coffee there’s a tiny, bite sized cookie sitting atop the lid.

“Don’t tell my boss,” you whisper, darting a glance back over your shoulder even as another pretty little smile graces your features.

Something unexpectedly warm and pleasant sings through his blood, and this time Iwa allows his own lips to twitch into the faintest hint of a grin in response.

You really are a truly awful judge of character.

Maybe that’s your downfall, that beautiful, naive innocence you just bleed. It’s a wonder that nobody’s come along to take advantage of you, especially when you are so very ripe for the taking. 

Well, nobody until him, he supposes. 

Iwa doesn’t know for certain why the men who want you dead do, he doesn’t particularly care either, but he does know that whatever their reasons are, it’s not enough.

Neither is forty thousand dollars.

It takes time, more than he’d like, to find the root of it all. It’s messy and he has to call in a few favours from old friends, but Iwa is nothing if not thorough.

He’s never particularly enjoyed killing, but there’s a certain satisfaction he gets from watching the light leave their desperate, pleading eyes knowing that he’s finally done his job. When he comes home, his shirt flecked with blood, his hands still dripping with it and coaxes your stricken, tear stained face up into a lingering kiss, Iwa feels content.

They wanted you to disappear entirely, he made sure that you did. 

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, not to get into the TW discourse again today, because I am so done with that, but I do have to say one last thing about yesterday’s posts, because the ones I made really didn’t sit well with me in hindsight.

For years I’ve always stressed that I will never even try to defend Scott’s actions with Isaac in 3B, because they were flat out wrong and don’t need to be defended. I should have just stopped there. Every single other point I made in regards to THAT specific argument was irrelevant, because that’s the only thing that matters there. 

The scene was bad. Scott was wrong. It doesn’t need to be defended. 

HOWEVER.

(C’mon, its ME. You HAD to know there was a but coming.)

We are now willfully shifting gears to engage with another aspect of this entirely, the one we should have been focusing on all along:

The thing is I fell for one of the more obvious but effective discourse tactics, the shell game (hide the real argument behind a bunch of smaller arguments JUST tangential enough to the original topic that its easy to claim no derailment is happening - its basically the online equivalent of bigger law firms drowning their opposition in so many minor suits and filings that they eventually just can’t keep up).

Okay, because see.....here’s the problem. ‘The other side’ of this argument keeps trying to make it about that singular scene in 3A, and attacking Scott’s actions in it so obviously people are defensive....but we keep responding by trying to defend Scott’s overall CHARACTER rather than justifying a single scene. And we should be focusing on the scene, not the character. Because their fundamental argument has always been ‘well how can you defend THIS scene?’

And the actual answer to THAT has always been.....uh....we don’t?

There’s not a SINGLE Scott stan I know that likes that scene. It wasn’t something we wanted to see repeated, something we celebrated because Scott was exercising his primal Alpha power and right to rule or whatever the fuck. At no point have I EVER seen a Scott stan try and justify that scene as it being something RIGHT to do. Some people try and create a context for it to make sense of it in terms of why and how Scott could do that at all, but that is still aimed squarely at disavowing that scene as something we REJECT as an example of his characterization. We flat out DO NOT WANT IT.

Now.

Try and tell me the same can be said of Stiles and Derek stans defending THEIR abusive moments. Claim that nobody’s ever argued (extensively) how Stiles was JUSTIFIED in that hospital hallway scene in 5B. Imagine for a moment, what fandom would even look like if huge swaths of people hadn’t gone to fucking town defending Stiles for his actions in Lunatic, saying Scott deserved it and it wasn’t that bad, honestly. Same with Heart Monitor. Say people didn’t laugh and hope for more scenes like that instead of being eww why the fuck are they acting like this is normal BFF behavior. Pretend there weren’t YEARS of arguments justifying Derek’s violence with Scott and his betas by saying oh Scott did bad things too and also he said mean things so he deserved it and Derek was just teaching them how to survive and it was his right as their alpha, they knew what they were getting into, etc, etc, etc. 

No but seriously. Go on. Make those claims.

Y’know. So I can laugh at you for being dumb and saying dumb things.

See, THAT’S the difference here. THAT’S the ACTUAL issue constantly getting shoved behind endless attempts at obfuscation.

Yeah, Scott’s actions in that scene in 3B were bad. We’ve literally never disagreed on that point. Show me a single post from my blog or any of the Scott meta blogs, where one of us ever tried to argue that Isaac DESERVED what Scott did. Said ‘well Isaac did kiss his ex-girlfriend, what did he think was gonna happen?’

And the nerve of some people to habitually - for YEARS - harass Scott fans and hone in on that ONE Scott and Isaac scene like they actually give a single FUCK about abuse or abuse survivors, and like that scene has ever had anything to do with them not liking Scott.....

Because the truth under the right shell is the reason they never let the arguments focus on Derek and Stiles’ most abusive scenes at all....

IS BECAUSE THEY DON’T THINK THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THEM.

They’ve ALREADY spent years justifying that shit. We’ve seen it. Endlessly.

And like I’m gonna take deep thoughts on abuse from people who claim that taping up your friend and throwing lacrosse balls at him, getting him beaten up, treating him like an actual animal to humiliate him.....that all of that is normal, acceptable behavior between friends? People who have so little conviction on these matters that you just KNOW they would be screaming about how abusive it was if the roles had been switched and it was STILES being physically punished and it was SCOTT filling up a dog bowl and treating Stiles like a dog as payback for something? 

Nope.

This farce has gone on too long, and fuck your bullshit tactics of trying to weaponize issues you know some of us actually truly care about just for the sake of turning people against a fictional TV character. Why are we acting like you actually give a shit about what was actually wrong with that scene in 3B? You don’t! We have a literal decade of proof! Of you being willing to go to any lengths to defend not just Stiles and Derek’s actions....no, but their RIGHT to be physically abusive with the other characters. Saying that the other characters DESERVED this behavior, that they were JUSTIFIED in the HOW of their specific interactions.

You’ve never tried actually defending Stiles and Derek’s worst moments because you don’t think you have to. You're fine with them.

And then you turn around and act like you actually give a shit about what Scott did to Isaac, when you know damn well that none of us have EVER tried to argue that he was RIGHT to do that, or that Isaac somehow deserved it.

Like. LOL. Fuck off.

Anyway, I’m done with this particular discourse for good, there’s literally nothing more to say because its actually always been really simple all along....but like, free soundbite for anyone who does still run into these assholes and have them try and pull this shit per usual. They raise this argument again, just say this:

“Scott shouldn’t have done that, agreed. And we can talk about that.....after we talk about whether or not you think Stiles and Derek were justified in their worst actions in Heart Monitor, Lunatic, Ice Pick, etc. Otherwise we’re just not on the same page here and never will be, so bye.”

The End.

Anyway, I am literally done with this forever and ever, that is henceforth the only thing I have to say on this subject, everyone feel free to do whatever you will with this post, @ me and I’ll just smile and wave at those in the rear view mirror, its been a long road but at least we’ll always have Paris, etc etc etc aaaaaaand scene. 

[magioftheseas]

The Capital Magical Defense Force

For @oumota-events

DAY 1: Magical Boys AU

Rating: T​+

Warnings: Violence, blood, death mentioned, darker implications. Yeah it’s one of those magical au. The daaaaark subversions.

Notes: This is the longest one because we’re starting off with a big bang~ It’s not that long though. It’s just not a ficlet unlike the others. I did really enjoy writing this though. It’s a pretty...fun...au. Yeah. Haha.

Ao3 Link

In just about every world, there are unseen forces to make sure a system works a certain way. That the cogs in the machine turn without fail and that any disturbances are dealt with promptly. These unseen forces can be mundane and dull—but they can also be fantastical...while still incredibly dull.

In this instance, there are two worlds. The dull, mundane one and the dull, fantastical one. The only way to transverse is through contracts between the respective denizens, and it turns out that said contracts are necessary to keep everything in order.

There are benefits, truly. If one world collapses, the other is taken with it. It is within everyone’s best interest that the denizens work together—even if certain manipulations need to be made. After all, the greater good is such a vague and nebulous concept. It’s more encouraging to offer personal gains.

Like, for example, keeping someone alive, be it from sickness or the aftereffects of a horrible, terrible, despairing accident. The desire to live is a powerful force shared among many, both dim-witted and intelligent. It’s an efficient deal to make, especially when the other side of the exchange is not only responsibilities, but special, magical abilities to deal with those responsibilities.

Shame, then, that one particular being blessed with those abilities, those responsibilities, that gift of survival...doesn’t seem to fully appreciate it. Certain arrangements have been made. That being has been assigned to the same areas as another being of a similar caliber, but far more keen to do what must be done.

This is as much an experiment as it is an effort to keep matters under control. Observations are to be as follows...

--

“In the name of the stars, I’m gonna kick your fucking ass!!”

The town hero known as Starboy was being filmed again. Floating about, sending so-called comet punch after comet punch. The monster squealed under the abuse, but it didn’t squeal as much as that fucking eyesore that tailed the magical boy around as he cursed colorfully under his breath.

“This jackass just doesn’t know when to quit!”

“S-Starboy-kun,” the thing whimpered. “Please watch your language! Kids idolize you!”

“Sorry!” Starboy exclaimed, focusing more on the fight thankfully. “It’s just—let me protect the city first!!”

With a battle cry, Starboy summoned all his strength for a starstorm, pummeling the monster more and more until it fizzled out of existence. Starboy was left slumped on the ground and gasping for breath, but still found it in him to whoop for joy.

Unfortunately for him, that moment of victory was short-lived.

“Geeeez, Starboy-chan, I thought you’d really get trampled this time! You didn’t even need any help!” Another magical boy landed on the scene, right next to where the monster had once been and plucking up the fragment which was all that remained.

“H-Hey!” Starboy shouted, more like wheezed. “What the hell—that’s not yours to take!”

“It’s payment for making me worry so much,” he cackled. “You really should be more careful! You don’t want to be killed in the line of duty, now do you?”

Weakened as he was from the fight, dodging Starboy lurching towards him was child’s play.

“D-Dice!!” that eyesore shrieked. “You and Starboy-kun should be working together! Why are you doing this?!”

Dice gave that thing a cold stare, but grinned in Starboy’s direction.

“Because I like you. That’s a lie. I like messing with you. Also a lie! I really—love you, Starboy-chan!”

“Quit messing around!” Starboy gasped. “Y-You—if you need those damn fragments, you don’t have to steal them! You’re a magical boy, aren’t ya?! You should be helping me defend the city! And then I’d split them with ya even!”

Aah. This guy...

“Oh Starboy-chan, I actually, truthfully loathe you,” Dice sighed.

“D-Dice!” the thing shrieked and without looking, Dice had fired a beam that knocked the pitifully contemptible creature out, much to Starboy’s dismay.

“S-SHIROKUMA...!”

Before he could go to help, however, Dice had seized the bow of his uniform, yanking him to not-quite eye level.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’d stop bothering with that thing and join me instead.”

Starboy only scowled.

“Why the hell would I join you when you act like a villain! I-If I could, I’d beat your ass too...!”

Such a remark gets Dice shoving him back, knocking him onto the ground. Starboy glared up at him defiantly, his stare only darkening as Dice grinned.

“It’s a joke, obviously!” he chirped. “After all—what sort of desperate loser would want to ally with an idiot like you?”

Starboy shouted at him, but whatever he shouted, he was already long gone. Starboy shouted again but, being the justice-obsessed type, he switched gears to muster up the strength to go stumbling after the fainted Shirokuma. Scooping the pitiful bear head-looking creature into his hands, Starboy avoided the incoming paparazzi and gracious civilians and rushed off to safety.

The ideal worker. Starboy will be a great boon of energy in the future once his limit is reached.

--

“Dice is such a fucking dick,” Kaito grumbles, rubbing ointment onto his bruises. “We’re both working for the same thing but for no reason at all, he’s self-serving and a piece of shit.”

He observes himself in the mirror, rubbing at the circles under his eyes. He’s been going at this whole magical boy hero thing for almost a year. It’s getting harder and harder, but for the sake of the city, he can’t give up. He’s its protector, after all.

Still, it’s getting difficult. His wastebasket is filled with bloodied tissue and bandages. Shirokuma, at least, is currently resting in a bucket of warm water. Dice’s attack had been as sudden as it was vicious, and for what?

“Why is he such a dick?” Kaito asks, but Shirokuma hums.

“Some people...are just bad. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry if that sounds despairing, Momota-kun.”

“Bad, huh.”

It’s not the first time he’s gotten that answer. When he describes Dice to his sidekicks, he more or less gets the same response. Harumaki even goes out of her way to call Dice a supervillain, which Shuuichi agrees to, but...

Here’s a secret that no one else knows. The crack in the foundation so painstakingly paved for black and white heroism.

Dice has saved his life more than once. When blood rushed up his throat and his knees buckled in, Dice would swoop in and let him save face. It would be passed off as Dice once again taking advantage of the situation...but it always, always happens when Kaito is facing death head-on.

Dice is a dick. A self-serving piece of shit. Possibly a supervillain.

He’s also definitely looking out for Starboy. It’s happened too consistently for Kaito to be convinced it’s unintentional.

If Dice insists on helping him, then surely he can’t be a bad person...except he still acts like a bad person most of the time.

What a headache.

“Feeling better, Momota-kun?” Shirokuma chirps up at him in that big sweet voice that Kaito can’t say no to, even when he probably should.

“Never better!”

A thumps-up. A wide grin. Doing his damnedest to pretend like his lungs don’t want to collapse in on themselves.

--

“Starboy-chan is such a fucking idiot.”

Ouma slams his chest of fragments shut. He still hasn’t figured out what the damn things do, but Shirokuma insists on collecting them so they must be important in some sense. Sure, Shirokuma says that it’s something to do with negative energy and restoring balance, blah, blah, blah—but Shirokuma is a piece of shit liar. And Ouma hates liars.

But he thinks he hates Starboy the most. Or, at least, he finds Starboy to be the most frustrating dumbass in the galaxy.

Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s obvious that Shirokuma is shady as all get out. It’s obvious that there is something deeply wrong with the magical boy system. There have been so many disappearances and it’s suspicious as all get out how Starboy in particular is being worked to the bone and pushed to the brink.

There’s something seriously wrong with all of it.

Ouma just needs to figure out what before everything goes wrong.

--

To become a magical boy, one needs resolve. To encourage magical boys, a wish is often granted to sweeten—and seal the deal. Ouma’s was a cowardly, stupid wish that he’s still kicking himself for to this day, although in hindsight he should be glad it was so simple. The worthless wish to live as everyone else was dead around him.

He’s still haunted by their faces. He should’ve wished for them but couldn’t. He was targeted and tricked, and now he’s stuck. But the least he can do is make everything difficult for those monsters along the way.

Starboy—aka Momota Kaito...well. Ouma doesn’t know what his wish was, but he suspects it’s as stupidly noble and short-sighted as he’s come to expect.

Oh, yes, he knows that Starboy is Momota Kaito. Who wouldn’t know that? They look the same—although Ouma suspects that magic is at play since no civilians have made the connection. Not even Saihara Shuuichi, a would-be detective.

It’s clear, however, that Saihara-chan has noticed the effects.

“This is the fourth time you’ve had to clear your throat, Momota-kun.”

Momota clears his throat again. He musters up a laugh.

“It’s just been dry. No big deal. You worry too much.”

“Gooooooodness, Momota-kun!” Ouma crowed, skipping in. “Are you dying?! Please, please don’t die! I haven’t even gotten to tell you how much I love you!”

Momota recoils when Ouma jumps on him. Saihara shrieks in surprise but Momota only growls as he tries to shake the brat off.

“Let—GO!”

Ouma does, but not without jabbing the back of Momota’s knee and causing him to topple over. Saihara rushes to steady him, shooting Ouma quite the ugly look. Ouma shrugs that off.

“Whatever it is you’re doing is killing you,” he merely states. “So, you should stop lest you traumatize my poor Saihara-chan.”

“I...” Saihara swallowed, looking like he’d hate to agree but when it came to Momota... “You shouldn’t overwork yourself, Momota-kun.”

“I’m fine,” Momota slurred. “Totally fine. I’m a goddamn Luminary, Shuuichi...” He says he’s fine while learning into Saihara. It’s a bright sunny day. People are no doubt stealing glances, and Momota no doubt has to hide his exhausted face in his sidekick’s shoulder. It’s a good thing Harukawa isn’t here.

Ouma scoffed. Saihara shot him another glare.

“If you’re just here to mess with Momota-kun, you can leave.”

Saihara’s hands tighten on Momota. Goodness, it really is like Ouma is the supervillain tormenting the tired hero.

How boring.

Ouma turns heel, smiling as he waves them off.

I shouldn’t bother. I shouldn’t have to bother.

--

No matter how many times he’s thought that, he ends up in this situation. With Starboy exhausted on the ground and a fragment pinched so firmly between his fingers that it’s this close to embedding itself in the skin. Shirokuma floats around Starboy.

“He’s getting close,” Shirokuma is saying. “He won’t be able to take much more. How despairing. So despairing.”

Ou—Dice swats the thing to the ground. It giggles up at him.

“You can’t save him, you weren’t able to save your other friends. Just give up, Dice-kun. Give into despair.”

It’s laughing, its laughter resounding even as Dice stomps the thing to bits. It’ll just reshape itself and find Momota again. No matter what he does, he can’t get rid of it. It’s part of a damn hivemind after all.

Sighing, Dice goes to Starboy once again, and Starboy is lying there almost prone. Looking painfully pale. His breathing is shallow. At least he’s still alive.

But for how much longer? And what am I even doing wasting my time with this idiot? No matter what I tell him or how bad he gets, he refuses to back down and Shirokuma just eggs him on.

He gets down, rolling Starboy onto his back. Starboy groans and for a moment, he blearily comes to.

“Di...ce... You...again...” There’s a couple of missing words. It’s clearly difficult for Starboy to speak. He groans, eyes screwing shut. When Dice helps him sit up, he coughs and there’s a thin stream of blood that trickles down his chin. “U-Urgh...hurts bad.”

“Well, yeah. You don’t take breaks, idiot.” Ouma tutted him. “Some of the monsters you take are mooks. You shouldn’t waste your time.”

“S-Shuuut,” Starboy slurs. He coughs again. “I’m...s’posed to be...a hero. A-A... Luminary.”

It’s because of shit like this that made it was so easy for Ouma to find Momota in the first place.

And Starboy—fucking laughs.

“Even through that stupid mask of yours, I can tell you’re disproving.” He musters up a bit more strength to speak, for all the good that’s doing him. “You’re really worried, huh?”

“I don’t trust Shirokuma,” Dice said simply. “You shouldn’t either.”

Starboy swallows. No doubt swallows back blood. He sucks in his breath. He shakes. He tries to shake his head specifically. Ends up slumping against him. Dice isn’t as gentle with him as Saihara was, but Dice still has little choice but to help him up.

“Stay with me,” Dice ordered. “You’re not allowed to die.”

He’s wasting his breath. Starboy’s definitely going to die at this rate even if it’s not today. All because—

“I’m a hero,” Starboy is slurring. “Heroes don’t—take breaks...they don’t leave people to die.”

“You’re not a hero,” Dice snapped. One step at a time. “You’re just an idiot.”

“It’s not...not about trust...” Starboy huffs at him next. “Not that...you’d understand that... Ouma.”

Dice doesn’t pause. Far from it.

...idiot.

Ouma Kokichi wonders if it’s a coincidence that he and Momota ended up in this situation together.

...

That’s right. Momota Kaito is going to bring you down. The hero! The Luminary! Won’t that be the Ultimate Despair?

(That’s how she would respond.)

Ouma Kokichi, always so close and yet so far, can’t focus on that right now. He has to save the life of a dying man after all. The results are sure to be favorable.

And yet, also so very—predictable.

Boring.

[wr1t3-my-wr0ngs]

Reaching Out

Codywan 4+1, Angst edition 

Four times Cody felt Obi-Wan reach out to the Clones mind with the force, and one time Obi-Wan felt it slip away. (Order 66)

Alright here is the thing I was working on last night. It has been spell checked and my grammar shouldn’t be too bad. In hindsight this isn’t as good as I thought it was at midnight, but ain’t that just the way writing works? Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy it just the same!

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

1- In battle

The first time it happened, Cody had more pressing things to worry about, such as staying alive. He was, after all, in the middle of a firefight.

He had lost sight of the General some time ago, the Jedi disappearing in the mess and confusion of battle. The droids were numerous, far more then what they had expected for this campaign and much harder to get rid of then usual.

He’s taking cover behind a pile of debris, most likely a piece of a ceiling if the decorative patterns, half covered by dust, are any indication when it happens.

It feels unlike anything he has experienced before, and it's only looking back after the event that he's able to put any words to it at all. Like the setting sun, all golden and warm, if it were made into a blanket brushing over something deep inside of him. As quickly as the feeling comes, it vanishes, leaving him feeling odd. It's as if on some fundamental level the inherent shape of him has changed, both bigger and smaller.

A blaster bolt slamming into the concrete of his makeshift cover mere inches from his head draws Cody back into the fight and soon enough the strange occurrence pushed aside in favor of returning fire. Whatever it was, it doesn't happen again, and by the time he once again gets eyes on his Jedi, Cody has forgotten all about it.

2- In the mess hall

The next time it happens, Cody is in the mess hall eating the morning meal. It's nothing special, but its also not ration bars, and is therefore an improvement on any number of meals he has had to choke down in his admittedly short life. All around him his men and brothers are starting their day as well, some shuffle in a half-awake state, desperate for the morning cup of caff, others chat amongst themselves.

Cody nearly chokes on his food when the strange warm feeling brushes up against and invades his mind. His eyes water and his breathing goes a bit funny as he tries to clear his airway, and Cody would be damned if the sunny feeling doesn't seem to change in response. It becomes sharper, more focused, and the feeling of being enveloped become more intense. Whatever it is, it almost feels... concerned?

Someone thumps him on the back, and Cody's airway clears. The concerned edge to the intrusion in his mind lingers for a moment until seeming to sigh in relief and relaxing, making one last pass around the edge of his consciousness, all golden and comforting, before pulling away.

"You alright, Vod?" Rex asks as he takes a seat next to the other clone.

"Yeah," the darker haired clone responds after a moment’s hesitation. "Yeah, I'm good."

3- On the bridge

The third time it happens, Cody curses. Loudly.

The ship is under attack yet again, and just once Cody would like it if they could get through a battle without any major damage. Luck, unfortunately, does not appear to be on his side as yet another blow strikes against their forward shields. The whole ship rocks, and Cody grabs onto the holo table for stability, his eyes never once leaving the projected display of the battle that rages around them.

The feeling slams into his mind with all the finesse of a rancor and the curse that comes out of his mouth turns several heads. Where before the feeling had always been one of a calm soothing nature, this time it rages like a burning frost. It screams warning and caution and to move, force help him, move.

His mind comes to a conclusion in an instant, trusting this strange sensation for reasons he can't fully articulate except that it feels safe and familiar.

"GET DOWN!"

Without his helmet he must rely on his own voice to reach the men around him, and the command bellows out with as much authority as Cody can muster. The men scramble to comply just as another, more powerful, blast slams into their deflector shields. This time the shields fail, and Cody's head collides with the edge of the table before him. It's funny, but as his vision slowly goes dark, Cody would swear he could hear General Kenobi calling his name.

4 - In Medical

Consiousness returns slowly. It takes a few seconds before the events of the battle catch up with him, and when they do, Codys eyes fly open as he tries to push himself into a sitting position.

Mistake, that was a mistake.

Pain assaults his head at both the movement and the harsh white lighting of the med bay. He closes his eyes with a groan and lowers himself back down onto his pillows, mentally telling himself that if someone needs him, they know where to find him.

"Cody?"

A warm hand on one of his own draws the clones attention away from the pounding in his skull and Cody opens his eyes, more cautiously this time, and although his eyes are slits, Cody easily makes out the familiar face of his General.

"How do you feel?"

The pain medication he is on has left his mouth painfully dry so takes a second before Cody can get his mouth to cooperate with him, and when he does his voice is raspy from disuse.

"M fine, sir. Head hurts a bit thats s'all"

His words slur slightly in a way that Cody knows means he both has a concussion. This time when the sunny feeling comes, it's gentle. Like a cool washcloth being placed on his forehead. The pain behind his eye’s eases, and the light doesn't feel as harsh as it did a second ago. Cody sighs in relief turning his head slightly as if that will allow him greater contact with the non-existent sensation.

The presence seems to laugh, and Cody is aware of Obi-Wan beside him huffing quietly with amusement.

Suddenly, things click into place.

"Oh,"

Beside him, Obi-Wan lifts an eyebrow.

"Are you sure you're alright Commander."

Between the head trauma and the painkillers, thinking is hard, and words are even harder, but for Obi-Wan, Cody tries. With his free hand, the clone points to his head, squinting against the bright light and doing his best to make eye contact with the Jedi beside him.

"That's you. I wondered."

And because his mouth is no longer obeying him, he whispers "Feels nice."

Cody could be imagining the slight blush that dusts the Jedi's cheeks at the admission, but he's too tired to truly care.

Now that he knows the strange sensation is actually his Jedi and not some side effect from brain trauma, Cody takes the time to properly assesses the force presence. There is something quintessentially Obi-Wan about the way it feels, something in the cool brightness that reminds him of the breeze on a summer day.

He is almost asleep when something occurs to him.

"You've been checking in on me."

That time on the battlefield when they had lost contact with each other, on the bridge in the last battle when Obi-Wan had practically screamed warning in his ear. Even, Cody realizes, that time in the mess hall. In all cases the Jedi was checking in, either to see how he was doing or to make sure he was still alive.

The blush that now decorates the Jedi's face is unmistakable. For the life of him Cody can't figure out if the embarrassment is from being found out, or if the act itself is what the Jedi finds cringeworthy.

"Ah, yes, well... I should actually apologize for that."

"It's alright, sir. It was startling at first but now that I know it's you..." Cody shrugs as best he can given his circumstances, "Just warn a guy first, yeah?"

+1 (ANGST) As a stranger (order 66)

Astride Boga, Obi-Wan feels something shift in the force. It's a familiar, if nauseating feeling, one that he associates with danger and trouble. While the battle had been going well, with Grievous dead and a good chunk of the firing out of the way, Obi-Wan had been hoping that taking the rest of the planet would be simple. What's worse is where the force is telling him trouble is coming from. Not further ahead in the canyon where scores of droids wait, but from behind him.

Without hesitation, the Jedi reaches out in the force, searching for the ever-steady signature of his Commander. It's difficult at this distance to pinpoint the clone he wants, but Obi-Wan pushes through until at last he finds the man he is looking for.

His bond with Cody is a as strong as any force bond can be when only one half of the pair is force sensitive. Its tenuous, chaotic at the best of times, but a constant in the Jedi’s mind. It should be easy enough to reach out and check in on his commander, but something is resisting Obi-wan.

When he does find him, Obi-wan examines the force signature for any signs of distress and finds nothing. The clone feels like the warmth of sun baked earth with a touch of the sea, free from the sour tinge of injury. His relief at finding Cody alive and unharmed is short lived, as the clones force presence is violently shut away behind a durasteel mental shield. It’s as if everything that makes Cody unique is drained away by a strong vortex. What is left behind is hardly recognizable as the Commander.

He has just enough time for dread to fill him before the first canon blast slams into the stone next to him. Boga startles, and that more than anything spurs him into action. He spares one backward glance at where his men stand, flanking the canons. As he fly's away, the tattered mental bond echoes back a single phrase.

Execute Order Sixty-Six, six, six...

[dani-studydiary]

hello! love ur blog

do u have any tips for a freshman archi student who's been having trouble organizing projects and assignments and literally gets no sleep?😩 as much I love architecture but professors really are going though on us, it's the first semester ffs :(

Hey there :)) I had a rough time with my professors too in my first year, only later on you realize that they do that to show you the basics of working on a project and where to start; but in the meantime it’s really annoying ahah I made so many changes on my first projects and I had many group projects to coordinate, I nearly went nuts.

In hindsight I can say that doing these simple things kept me sane while working: 

- I don’t live in the city where my university is so I took the train, before the covid situation, and I could revise a bit in that half hour commute. In this situation I suggest getting up just a half hour early, nothing extreme, to revise the material of the last lecture so the knowledge is still fresh in your mind for the new lecture of the day.

- I create a weekly/monthly schedule so I can start planning in advance the time I need to work on a project or its specific parts, I usually had projects due at the end of the year so for both the semesters every week/months I gave myself a deadline on a part of the project, usually the week before Christmas I had to finish working on the plans, before march I had to finish working on the renders and the virtual model and a couple of week before the exam I could make the actual 3d model without losing sleep; so prepare in advance.

- Often my lectures consisted of theory lessons and revisions on the progress of the project. I recorded every theory lecture so I could both work on my project and repeat the materials listening to those recordings; I even recorded the revisions as back-up, so I could concentrate on what the professor was changing in the project and why instead of trying to write it all down and then later trying of make sense of the professor’s scribbles on the sheets.

- If I had to work with other people on a project I had to speak with everyone even if I’m not the most extrovert or charismatic person on earth. The only way to survive group projects It’s to communicate with others. If you don’t like something your friend proposed tell them and propose an alternative solution; always bring solutions to an argument and not problems, even if your solution still need some work. I could have avoided lots of inside fights if the people in my group talked to each other instead of doing stuff without a group talk first.

- Set a bedtime. It’s not worth working on a project late into the night, your brain is not really concentrated, and you could make a lot of mistakes that takes double the time to correct the next day. It’s better to sleep and wake up early, drink a lot of water and just work in the morning.

- If you have oral exam work with a friend or a study buddy, you can explain stuff to each other so you’re forced to speak with the correct terms and you can improve your speech skills.

- Name your layers, your recordings, folders and your files. This saved me from re-doing a whole plan cause i couldn’t find the damn file and from losing my mind in the ocean of photoshop layers my friend named a, aaa, yellow, asdfgfh, concept2. >-<

- Lastly, if coffee start losing its effects, start swapping that for tea or ginseng; use energy drinks as a last resort.

That’s it, these simple advice really helped me in my last years. I wish you good luck in your studies anon :)) ✨ 

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Judgement Call (Din Djarin x OC)- Chapter XIX

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CHAPTER XIX: AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

Zakia was not expecting both of Greef Karga's remaining men to fall dead when blasters were drawn.

If she was being honest, she expected to be the dead one. Kuiil was safe on the last Bluurg several yards behind her, while Din and Cara both had some armor to protect their chests.

They had just made it to a ridge overlooking the town when Greef paused and sighed aloud. The trio on their feet had all tensed, and Zakia could see the hunters moving in her peripherals. Everyone had blasters drawn by the time Karga had fired and, in hindsight, it was a comical sight. Her, Din, and Cara all stood at the ready, muzzles pointed to Karga.

The Guild boss instantly relented, lifting his hands in surrender. Din straightened from his defensive position, and Zakia slowly lowered her dual blasters. Her sniper rifle hung at her shoulders, its presence a comforting weight.

"There's something you should know." Greed said, walking between Cara and Mando. Zakia took a step forward to be at Din's side, slipping both guns back into their holsters. Karga continued wordlessly, kicking blasters away from their fallen owners. "The plan was to kill you and take the kid."

Zakia lifted her shoulders. "Shocker."

"But, after what happened last night, I couldn't go through with it." Greef's gaze bounced back and forth between Din and Cara, trying to gauge their reactions. "Go on. You can gun me down right here and now and it wouldn't be a violation of the Guild code. But if you do, this child will never be safe."

As much as she wanted to speak up and say that was her desire, Zakia couldn't bring her mind around to it. Karga had indeed violated their trust- not that there was any to begin with- but he had killed his own men. She knew first-hand the effect their tiny charge had on others, and it seemed his innocence had won their old boss over as well. Zakia noticed Kuiil seemed to share her sentiment, as the Ugnaught watched the tense exchange with stony eyes.

"We'll take our chances." Cara spat, and Zakia opened her mouth briefly before snapping it shut again. She didn't want to make such a staunch declaration like Cara, but knew somewhere that the Mandalorian would trust her.

"The Imperial client is obsessed with obtaining this asset. You tried to run, but where did it get you?" Greef held his hands out, motioning to their surroundings.

"This is ridiculous." Cara hissed at Din and Zakia. The latter grit her teeth, forcing herself to gather the words she needed.

"He might be right." Zakia blurted.

Din's helmet swung towards her at the same time Cara did. An grimace was stretched across the shock-trooper's face, almost accusatory as it was directed at Zakia.

"Perhaps you should let him speak." Kuiil saved Zakia from having to form an explanation, but she kept her eyes on Din's visor nonetheless.

The Child was going to be in danger until the client was dead, and they all knew it. They could run, but for how long? It was only a matter of time before a run in went wrong, or there wasn't a second person in the trees to kill their pursuers.

"Listen. We both need the client to be eliminated. Let me take the Child to him. And then you three-"

"No." Din cut into Karga's new plan, silencing him before he had a chance to finish.

"Let's just kill him and get out of here." Cara urged.

Zakia's head snapped in her direction. As much as she had respected the shock-trooper's instinct on Nevarro, this situation was being tugged in the opposite direction. She knew Cara was worried about her chain code and the implications of it being ran. But she knew the risk when she boarded the Razor Crest, and it irked Zakia she wanted to run. They were all wanted, and would most likely end up dead if they were caught in an ambush attempt.

But if they were caught running with the Child one day, they would all be dead.

"No offence, because you're a great friend, but I think you worrying about your chain code is clouding the current state of the mission, Cara. You know, it's not that hard. If you want to leave- go. If Kuiil and I are the only ones that can see there is actually a point being made here, fine." Zakia stepped forwards, and Din dropped his blaster once she was in its path. "We can run now, but it will only be a matter of time before it happens again, and again, and again."

Cara looked to be preparing a rebuttal, but Din straightened suddenly and holstered his blaster. "Karga is right."

"What are you doing?" The shock-trooper looked at Mando, still pointing her blaster towards Greef.

"As long as the Imp lives, he'll send hunters after the Child." Din explained. Zakia nodded, hoping her eyes were conveying thanks to his.

"It's a trap." Cara reiterated, blinking from Zakia to Mando.

"Bring me." Din offered.

"Bring you?" Zakia squeaked the words at the same time Karga spoke them.

"Tell them you captured me. Get me close to him and I'll kill him." The Mandalorian's voice was steady, and Zakia could find no indications of mistrust in his body language. "You said he's stationed where your tavern used to be. There's a high chimney that climbs one of the buildings about three hundred meters away from the bar window. Zakia can set up with the rifle there as backup."

Zakia swallowed at the thought of Mando diving headfirst into the Imperial hideout. Her only reassurance was their last out facing the Imperials, where the troopers prooved more incompetent than any she had seen. However, this time he had betrayed the client. He was wanted, and there was a bounty hanging high over his head. Her own conflicts with the Imps were of little consequence- if they couldn't find out her name, how was she going to be indicted of any crime?

"That's a good idea. Give me your blaster."

Mando did so wordlessly, and turned to Zakia. "Can you get in?"

Zakia swung the rifle over her shoulder and used the scope to check for unguarded sections of the wall that surrounded the bazaar. There was a crumbling slat to the right of the entrance and around a corner, and she was sure it would make an easy entrypoint.

"Yeah."

"This is insane." Cara protested yet again.

"It's the only way." Din argued.

"Well- I'm coming with you." The shock-trooper relented, but she sounded far from happy.

"No, no no." Karga held up a hand. "That would make them suspicious."

"I don't care. I'm coming." And now the attitude had flipped.

"Tell them she caught him." Zakia said, lowering the rifle. "More likely than you. No offense."

"Fine. Then she can bring the Child." Karga tried to reason, but the entirety of their team opposed it.

"No. The kid goes back in the ship." Din asserted, looking to Kuiil. He ignored Karga's protests. "I have a plan. Kuiil, ride back to the Razor Crest with the Child, and seal yourself in. When you're inside, engage ground security protocols. Nothing on this planet will breach those doors."

The Ugnaught was already walking forward. "Here is a comlink. I will keep the Child safe." He paused, looking up at Cara. "Don't forget to cover your stripes."

With his words hanging in the air, Cara did just that. The Mandalorian stepped towards Greef, fingers brushing by Zakia's hip. "I trust you." His words were barely a whisper, slipping out beneath the modulator and rushing over Zakia like a warm wash of water.

"I know."

"Let's go."

Making her way around the bazaar's wall was simple. Zakia had done it plenty of times, sneaking around when her and Mando were younger, to mess around in the dark nights after too much to drink. The memories were her only comfort then, her legs screaming as she crept along the ground.

At the small break in the wall, she stopped to survey it. She switched her scope to thermal and directed it towards the bazaar, checking for any signatures that could belong to troopers. There was movement all about the town, but nothing indicating a hostile presence near her.

"Hey!"

Zakia whirled around, coming face to face with the exact type she had been trying to avoid. Her eyes widened as he reached for a blaster, white armor gleaming in the sun. To her relief, he failed to signal for help.

"What are you doing outside the wall?" He demanded.

Sliding an innocent look onto her face, the blonde forced her limbs to relax. "I was just-" She motioned at the flats. "Hunting.

She imagined the man beneath the obnoxious-looking helmet would be rolling his eyes. "Chain code?"

Now that, she didn't have with her. "Sure thing. Give me just a minute to find it, would you?"

The trooper sighed. "Make it quick."

He hitched his hands onto his hips, head swiveling back in the direction of the entrance to town. Zakia did her best impression of a scared woman, shuffling through her pockets one by one until the Stormtrooper looked in the right direction.

With his head turned far enough behind him, Zakia slipped a hand to her boot and forced herself to move as fast as she could. She drew the knife that was always sheather in her leg, jerking straight up and plunging the blade through the trooper's throat. She jumped out of the way of the blood splatter, yanking the vibroblade back with her.

"Damn."

Zakia shook out her hands, and wiped the blade clean before turning back to the wall. She braced her hands on the rock surface before hesitating and turning back towards the man on the ground. She considered him for a moment before biting her lip and stepping back, nearing his fallen body.

It took only a few moments to figure out how the armor went together, and Zakia quickly stripped him of it. She snatched the boots- big enough to go over her own petite ones, and dragged all the items on clumsily. It fit loosely over her own clothing, but the armor was easily tied tighter.

The entire process only took a few minutes, and Zakia ignored whatever the man's face looked like when she took the helmet from his head. She wrapped her head scarf around her face and placed the helmet over her head, feeling every ounce like she was defiling something sacred within herself.

"Awesome." She surveyed her own appearance best she could, and proceeded to haul her body over the V-shaped crack in the wall.

Zakia's rifle clattered uncomfortably against the white armor, but she pressed on until the chimney Mando mentioned came into view. While she wasn't exactly hiding, she didn't want to have a confrontation either. Her costume change served as camouflage, but not as a promise of escape.

"How the hell- oh hello." Zakia muttered to herself as she sought out a way to get herself onto the roof. There was a narrow alley between two buildings, and Zakia crept into it from the darkened alley. The normally bustling town was oddly silent, and she found herself at odds with the lack of noise.

Thankful for her vertically-challenged status, Zakia's limbs were the ideal length to fit in the crevice. They provided her with a quiet and easy solution to scale the wall. She used both hands outstretched and legs to crawl up like a spider, snorting at the image of a Stormtrooper doing so. She hauled herself onto the correct rooftop and then up its water tower, which was placed just to the left of the chimney- far enough that she could easily roll to the side and be hidden. Zakia was unaware of Din's source on that particular bit of knowledge, but she was thankful he had it nonetheless.

From her vantage point, the main drag was clear. Zakia rushed to set up her rifle, turning the thermal on to check the tavern. Sure enough, there was a trio just inside the door that looked to be Din, Cara, and Karga. Zakia sighed, watching carefully through the scope as they were apparently ushered further in. There were several other heat signatures present, and Zakia switched off her thermal when they all became visible in the long window behind the bar. It was translucent, but in a way that made individual figures apparent in the daylight.

"I don't like this." She muttered to no one in particular.

Minutes ticked by, throughout which Zakia flicked the scope from thermal to normal, to infrared with no winners between the three. Four figures now sat at the table inside the bar; the fourth she assumed to be the client. She noticed the enumerated Stormtroopers, and was annoyed at Karga's mention of four the previous night. This was closer to a whole platoon outside the hideout alone.

Zakia pulled the helmet from her head and made sure to cover her hair before looking back through the scope. When she did so, one of the figures that had been at the table previously stood, wandering to the bar. The frame and posture was unfamiliar- too broad to be Karga, and too hunched to be the Mandalorian. No curves to indicate it was Cara. She placed the crosshairs on the figures head, breathing in deeply. She waited a moment before placing her finger on the trigger, and another moment before applying any pressure.

The rifle was primed and seconds away from firing a shot when the sounds of footsteps drew Zakia's attention away. It was a large number of people moving, and she was horrified when she lowered the rifle.

Outside the tavern window was a squad of Death Troopers.

Their black armor reflected the sun in a sickly green fashion, and they all had wide-barrel blasters raised and aimed at the window. Zakia no time to think when they began shooting round after round through the window. She gasped audibly, and forced herself to refrain from sound. As long as people were still fighting to get to Mando and the group, the Child must be safe.

The sniper lowered her eyes back to the scope, searching for the three signatures that would come from Din and their crew. She was thankful to find just that, spotting the blue spot of cold that was Din's cuirass. Zakia was considering her options- spoiler, there weren't many- as a hovering, armored vehicle offloaded a full platoon of troopers onto the street.

Zakia didn't dare to try and contact Mando's com unit- the Imperials had a reputation for intercepting signals, and she would not be party to it. She just bit her lip and watched, unsure of the next possible move.

'WHOOSH'.

Zakia ducked her head down, mind flashing back to the winged beast from the previous night. A thunderous noise bore down on the town, and Zakia prayed whatever it hadn't spotted her on the way down. As it sped into view, her stomach twisted all over again.

A TIE-fighter was landing behind the armored vehicle, setting up a display of violent opposition to whatever little opportunity was left for escape. The circular top hissed open, but its position with respect to Zakia blocked her from being able to get a mark on the target. The craft blocked most of her view, and the blonde cursed. She had to get to the tavern.

Zakia scrambled down from her position as quietly as she could, slipping the Stormtrooper helmet back on when she made it to the ground. She searched around the ground, trying to figure out a way to the tavern. Zakia knew there was no back door, and getting across the main street would be impossible regardless.

"Damn." Zakia paced the alleyway, trying to think of any possible solution. There was no way for her to get back with her team, and there was no way she would be able to wipe out an entire platoon without being captured.

Searching the ground for any sign of hope, Zakia slung the rifle to her front. The Mandalorians had a covert in the bazaar, and she had never seen one before. They had to transverse the town somehow, and she doubted it was by jetpack.

"How…" Zakia leaned near the door of a small building, and paused as her eyes drilled holes into the dirt. "The sewers."

Nevarro was, underneath, a lava-formed planet. It was always hot, and the heat from the planet had to be channeled out. The only sensible way to keep it from building below the town was to channel it out. Zakia understood that homes were heated during the cold night, and the realization struck her then.

She turned to the door, knocking briefly. No answer came, and she edged it open slowly, effectively avoiding any creaking. It was a dimly lit dwelling, with an empty dinner table and kitchen area. The blonde wasted no time hustling in, and followed the seam of the wall. The grate for their heating had to be somewhere near, and Zakia needed to move.

The tinny sound of an amplified voice reached her ears, but it was too far to discern anything other than harsh syllables. "Come on, come on…."

Zakia found herself in a small bedroom before she located her target. It was tucked beneath the bed, and would be just barely wide enough to squeeze herself through. The bolts holding it in place looked old, and her vibroknife was put to use as she sliced through the brittle metal.

"Oh, thank the Makers for code violations." Zakia pulled the rifle from her shoulder and pointed its flashlight into the hole. It was dark for a few feet, but the concrete beneath was visible.

Zakia shed her armor and lowered the rifle down first, extending her arm to the full length so her gun only dropped a foot. Inhaling deeply, she dangled her legs in and allowed her body to slip down. It was incredibly claustrophobic, and her ass almost got stuck on a lip of concrete, but Zakia managed to tumble not-so-gracefully to the ground.

"Shit." She breathed upon impact.

Fortunately, she managed to keep her bearings directionally. Zakis shouldered the gun and took off in the direction she assumed the tavern was, keeping her ears open. As she neared a junction that could only be of the main pathway, she paused.

There was a sound echoing through the chambers, and Zakia was forced to cover her ears. It was shrill and familiar, and she forced herself to look up. She knew that sound...

"A speeder…"

Zakia recalled seeing a few outside the wall, and two through the scope. She doubted any civilians were authorized to leave, and the thought brought her to a conclusion.

A speeder meant one of two things:

1) Someone was coming to help them

Or

2) The Imperials had captured the Child.

And Zakia had a sinking feeling it was the latter.

_________________________________________________

Din wasn't sure when he came back to consciousness.

His limbs were heavy, and he was on the ground. Cloudy eyes blinked lazily beneath his helmet, and the resounding vibration from its impact seemed to reverberate constantly.

'CONCUSSION'

Din's brain screamed at him, but it acted as if no signals could leave it. He felt someone grab him-drag him to safety. Away from the Imps, and away from Moff Gideon. The tavern door rushed closed, and Din was propped against an overturned table. Blood trickled into his mouth and down his neck, through the stubble he hadn't had time to shave.

He wished he could feel his legs, or his arms. Something to solidify the fact he was actually awake. Everything was submerged to him, swimming in a sea of red and brown.

The sea.

It was something he hadn't seen in years. Since before the Child, and before he had ever taken the bounty from Karga. Someone else had been on the beach with him, and his brain clung to the memory as it scrambled to stay afloat in the waves of his mind.

"Oh, Mando. It's beautiful."

Zakia was standing beside him, bare feet dug deep into the sand. The Mandalorian sighed, shaking out his boots.

"It's going to look really beautiful on the floor of my ship." He returned, nudging the blonde.

Her hair was gorgeous, as it always appeared to him. It was beauty in its most natural form- curls bouncing around her shoulders and coiled more tightly than normal because of the humidity rolling off the ocean. Zakia turned to him with a smile, though only the left side of her face lifted. The right was still wounded, pink flesh just beginning to regain its function. Dark tissue lined the outside of her newest battle scar, and he could tell it pained her to smile.

In a newfound gesture of affection- they were doing that now- she leaned into his side. They had been traveling together for a few months after her injury, and had grown closer than Din thought he was capable of. Zakia was almost completely dependent upon him at first, and had grown distant once she was independent again. But nightmares plagued her, and they couldn't stay far apart on a ship that was barely made for two people. So they relied on each other. Din had someone to talk to about missions, and Zakia had someone to help her with basic tasks that she was unable to complete alone anymore.

He enjoyed the company. More than he ever thought possible. The closeness was something he had not felt since being a boy, and he reveled in Zakia's occasional contact.

"Is this okay?" She murmured.

Unbeknownst to her, Din was content. Putting on a face about the sand, but that was his job.

"It's great." Din allowed Zakia freedom as she turned further into him. She tucked her arms to her chest and pressed her face to his side. His arm lifted to hold her gently by the waist.

"Thank you for bringing me here, Mando." Zakia spoke, her voice muffled by his shirt.

"Uh... " He trailed off, unsure how to continue. "Din."

"Sorry?" Zakia looked up at him, all blue eyes and sunshine.

"My name. It's Din." He kept his gaze on the ocean, though his cheeks felt hot beneath his helm.

"Thank you." Zakia didn't push the topic or inquire on his reasoning. She just let him be, and they took in the sights together.

"Don't wear it out."

Zakia snorted, lifting her head from his cuirass. "You got it, Mando."

"Mando!"

"Mando!"

"Is he-"

"It's our only path-"

"Clear it!"

The voices came in bursts, and Din's brain protested the change of subject. The oceanside memory had been warm, and his body was cold. But the voice from his dream was there, and it dragged Din back to the surface.

"...Zak?"

"Oh, Thank Maker." The voice was far away. 

Din's hand flopped uselessly on the ground. 

"Where..?"

"I'm here, don't worry. I'm fine." Zakia's voice was close, but he could hear the concern.

"Good." He choked on what was probably his own blood, and did his best to push it down. Another face came into his view, this one with dark-hair.

Cara.

He could remember the Imps and the E-Web. The fight. But not how it ended. Din could recall the worry he'd felt about his partner, which was partially soothed as he heard her voice.

But he could barely breathe.

As his brain came back into contact with his body, the pain in his chest and stomach became more apparent. It hurt to pull in each breath. Cara was still hovering over him, and he weakly tilted his helmet towards her when she spoke.

"Zakia found the tunnels in the sewer you mentioned. She's stuck on the other side of the grate- Karga's trying-"

"I'm not gonna make it." He breathed. "Go- make Zak go with you. She d-doesn't need to be here."

"Shut up. You just got your bell rung, you'll be fine." Cara was leaning over him, eyes darting behind her every so often. He could hear a faint hissing sound, but what exactly it was escaped him.

"Cara? How is he?"

"Leave me." Din kept his voice low to avoid Zakia's detection. Wherever she was stuck waiting to be freed, she didn't need to hear. Cara noticed the blood on his cowl and he was thankful she managed to keep a straight face.

"You have too much to lose, buddy. I'm gonna need to take this thing off." Cara reached for his helmet, and Din batted her hands away.

"No. You leave me. Zakia will understand, she-she has to. You two make sure the Child gets out safely. Here."

Through a wheeze he ripped the Mythosaur pendant from its resident place on his neck. Normally it remained hidden beneath his cowl, but it was important for their escape.

"Cara!" Zakia called once again over the hissing sound, but Karga was hushing her. They couldn't be heard.

"When you get to the Mandalorian covert, you show them that. Zak doesn't know where it is… but you show them that and tell them its from Din Djarin. Tell them the foundling was in my protection, and they'll help you." Din's thoughts were far from coherent, but the connotations of their current situation hung on his shoulders.

"We can make it." Cara urged him.

Din noticed an encroaching heat, but his brain was far from acknowledging the danger.

"Protect the Child. I can hold them back long enough for you to escape. Let me have a warrior's death." He knew Cara could respect the last bit. She was a warrior too.

"I won't leave you. And if you think Zakia will, you're out of your mind."

"This is the Way."

Deafening rumbles came from both their front and backs at the same time. A Stormtrooper- this one emblazoned with red stripes down the middle of his armor, breached the door with a smoldering flamethrower. It spewed fire, and Cara covered Din with her own body. Another scraping sound to his left drew his attention, and Din exhaled heavily when he felt familiar hands on his arms.

Zakia didn't have a chance to speak before the Stormtrooper lifted his flamethrower and pointed it at their faces. Her and Cara exchanged a glance over his helmet- as if he couldn't make logical decisions anymore- and ducked down. Din flinched out of pure instinct, and braced himself for what was sure to be a painful death, made even more so by the presence of his loved ones.

To his surprise, death hadn't reached them after a few seconds. Din blinked wearily, tipping his head forward to take in the tiny Child standing before them. Its tiny arms were outstretched, and a ball of fire spun in the air. It was motionless , only turning on itself as it remained in one place. It only moved when the baby thrust his arms forwards. The resounding explosion sent the Stormtrooper flying, and all three near the overturned table winced.

The Child then fell to his rear, exhausted from the ordeal.

"Come on! It's open, let's go!"

Karga was standing behind Din somewhere, but he couldn't turn his head to see. Cara looked at Zakia, who nodded curtly. The warrior stood, hissing something at the IG-11 droid positioned behind all of them. She placed a brief hand on Zakia's shoulder and moved away, leaving them alone as she scooped up the Child as well.

Zakia then focused her attention on him. "Din…"

"Zakia, I-I can't beat this one." He managed. "It's bad."

She sniffed, and Din knew she was trying to hold it together for his sake. "And I can't leave you. You need to let the IG bring you. We can get you to safety. Treat you."

Din swallowed, shaking his head. It sent stars flying across his vision, and he took it as a sign of his deteriorating condition. The fire was growing closer, illuminating his partner's face in orange and red. There was an exchange between group members taking place behind them, but Din was too far into the darkness to make out their words.

"Din! Dammit, Djarin, you're not allowed to leave me!" Zakia lifted a hand to his neck, pulling it away to examine the blood. "I need to take this off."

The mechanical steps of the IG droid came closer, and its metallic persona appeared in Din's vision.

"No." Din shook his head. "Go. Zakia, I need you to do this. For me."

Stubborn as ever, she shook her head. "No. I won't let you die alone. Remember last time we were on this planet? I won't let you die at all."

The IG turned to her. "I will stay with the Mandalorian."

"When will you two idiots realize I'm not leaving?" Zakia managed. Her hands were ineffectual, lying hopelessly on Din's thigh.

"I need to remove your helmet if I am to save you." IG-11 interrupted their pre-death staring match, and Din remained stock-still.

"IG's are hunters." Zakia deadpanned. She was straightforward, even to the point where she was staring death in the eye.

"Not this one. I was reprogrammed. I am a nurse droid. As previously stated- I am to remove the helmet if I am to save you."

Din managed to pull his blaster when the IG's clawed extremity reached out. The Creed was everything sacred to him. Mandalorians would rather die than break it, and he was no exception. Zakia knew the implications from the beginning, and always respected them. He would not allow a droid to break the oath he had sworn so many years ago.

"Try it and I'll kill you." Din pointed his gun at the droid, and Zakia shook with frustration. The noise that escaped her was half-sob, half- yell.

"It is… forbidden. No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I s-swore the Creed." Din choked. Zakia reached up, placing a hand on his blaster. She swung her body around, straddling his thighs with her knees. Her hair was a halo around her head, and Din reveled in the sight. If he had to die, it would be like this.

"I won't be living without you, Din." Zakia wiped tears away from her face, whimpering as she shielded him from the flames. "You know I've respected the Creed as long as we've been together, but this is where I draw the line. This is your life. This is us."

Din dropped his head against the table behind him, hands coming to rest on Zakia's hips. He squeezed gently, and his brain caught up with his mouth. Why was it this woman tore him to pieces? Built him up and then knocked him down like a blast charge on an old wall. Shattered to pieces in a matter of seconds

"I trust you. With everything. With this." Din didn't have to elaborate on his words for Zakia to understand them.

Their time was limited, and it was running out quickly. Zakia reached her hands up, fingers locking around the bottom of his helmet. Din didn't fight this time, despite the fact that his brain fought him at every step. Zakia was gentle, but more confident than she had been on Sorgan. Her hands pulled the metal away, deft fingers pressing the pneumatic release.

And it had been so long since he had felt the atmosphere of another planet on his face. Sorgan had been the exception, thought it was only a few moments worth of peace. This was a hot blast of heat in his face, and his eyes flickered open with more clarity than he had in a long time. It took a moment to adjust to the light, and the droid was already surveying him.

"This is a bacta spray. It will heal you in a matter of hours."

Din couldn't hear the droid or recognize his actions, as he was too busy staring at Zakia.

She still sat over his thighs, frozen with the helmet in her hands. Her glacial eyes were fixed on his, and he forced a smile. "S-sorry to… disappoint."

Zakia moved then, sobbing freely as she embraced him as gently and as tightly as possible while the droid tended to his wounds. Din was too concussed to process this development properly, but he imagined it would all rush over him later if they managed a miraculous escape.

"Disappoint?" Zakia released a wet laugh into his shoulder, eventually lifting her head to kiss his cheeks and face. Everywhere she could reach was peppered with kisses, and Din began to gain some feeling back.

"You're perfect. Beat to hell and dragged through the dirt, but you're perfect."

'The eyes are the windows to the soul.'

Zakia had the saying recited to her over and over as a child. It was true, as far as she was concerned. But that day, inches from death and beaten by flames on the floor of their old hangout, Zakia was given evidence to support her claims.

Seeing Din's eyes had both broken her and saved her at the same time.

She was left to consider the idea as they carefully climbed into the sewer grate, supported by IG-11. The Mandalorian's helmet was replaced once they were on the ground, and Zakia reached up to switch on his helmet light.

After the droid had urged their exit, neither party had a chance to consider the complication of the previous minutes' action. Zakia knew the code was broken, but it was necessary. Din and her were partners- together as long as they could be, and bonded by a broken life. They had been through countless tragedies together, and even more fortunes. Letting his die was not an option, and removing the helmet fell hand-in-hand in their predicament. If she was being honest, she expected a much bigger rebuke on his part. A harsher opposition- anything to indicate he was worried.

But he hadn't fought her.

Then when the beskar was gone and it was his dark, worried eyes staring back at her in place of a visor, she broke. Zakia cried, only pulling herself together to get all of them out of imminent mortal danger. IG-11 had been instrumental in their escape from the building, and Zakia was sure they never would have got away without the droid. As they limped deeper into the sewer, she had no words.

They had a long way to go, but it felt like a huge obstacle had been taken from their path.

[staygold-ponyboycurtis]

Another short story of mine!!! Let me know what you think :)

"When Sandy went to Florida… it wasn't Soda, Ponyboy. He told me he loved her, but I guess she didn't love him the way he thought she did, because it wasn't him." Sandy confronts Sodapop about her pregnancy. What really happened between them?

He could see her Mustang slow down at a stop sign, then turn left onto the road. He smiled. The car was a light, powdery blue color. Light and sweet. Like her. Nobody else in town owned one like it. Her father had bought it for her for her sixteenth birthday and he happily brought it back to its glory. She slowed the car into the driveway. It raised his spirits a bit. After all this time, he was still crazy about her. Just seeing her put him in a better mood. It was funny to him how other people could have that effect.

Sodapop slung the dirty rag over his shoulder and wiped his calloused, oily hands on his jeans. Darry had complained about a ticking noise that clicked every time he pressed the brakes in his truck. Sure, Sodapop could've had Steve fix it for him - God knows that he was more talented with cars. But Soda needed something to ease his mind. He was anxious and worried sick and felt like a caged animal in that house. He hadn't worked in days. He needed to occupy himself. There was something methodical about working on a truck.

He leaned up against the car as Sandy hopped out. She looked hurried. Frantic. He furrowed his brows, unsure of what to make of it. She was wearing her red skirt – a favorite of his. He thought about how it matched her eyes; red-rimmed and swollen. Like she had cried over something.

She took a good look at him and cocked her head to the side. "Sodapop," she said slowly. "You don't look good at all. Have you been sleeping?" He turned his head and caught his reflection in the window. He stared at himself in all of his blood-shot, dark-circled, unkempt glory. He wore his anguish like a polished medal.

He scoffed, shaking his head. Ironic. She was preaching to the choir here. "Ponyboy is still gone and we haven't heard anything in a while. We can't get in touch with him and it's killin' me. It really is."

She nodded once, understanding the emotional toll Pony's absence was inevitably taking on him. She had gotten a sob-ridden earful a few nights before. She had gathered the courage on the way here to say what she needed to say. No going back now. Just say it, she thought. Just get it over with.

He stepped closer to her. He reached his hand out to touch her face and stroke her cheek like he always did. She winced under his touch. "Where've you been?" Soda asked softly. It sounded whiny and petulant. "I called you every single day. Your mom said you were out and your dad said you were at a friend's house – I called Cindy and she said you were-"

"I'm pregnant, Soda," she said curtly. It came out quick, as if it were one syllable. Like ripping a Band-Aid off. She didn't want to cover up her failures. She looked at Soda for a split second, then back to her feet. Her mind was instantly reeling.

He stood there for a moment. Shocked. Confused. Excited. Everything else in between. In hindsight, he figured that he also looked pretty foolish. His eyes lit up instantaneously. Sandy may as well have told him that he won the lottery. But that was just Sodapop's way.

She worked over the look on his face and stepped backwards cautiously. A look that said, No, you're not getting the point.

"Sandy!" he shouted excitedly, throwing the rag onto the ground and rushing towards her. "Do you know what this means?"

She shook her head vehemently. "Sodapop, no- it's not- I'm not… what I'm trying to say is you're not-"

"I mean, we're both a little young, but everything happens for a reason, right? You can move in with us. You can finish high school and by the time the baby comes-" he rambled rapidly.

"Sodapop, will you listen to me for a second? I can't-"

"Why aren’t you excited, Sandy? You love kids-"

"You're not the father."

He stopped in his tracks. "What?" he managed out in a betrayed, weak voice. She saw the liveliness drain from his demeanor. Like popping a balloon with a sewing needle. Quick. To the point.

This time, she was the one stepping closer to him. As if the limited space would make the point clearer. She reached her arm out and he recoiled. His eyes bore holes into her.

"What do you mean?" he asked again in a louder, more demanding voice.

"It was a mistake, Sodapop," she said. "I didn't think this would happen."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. A classic Darry reflex. "Who was it?" The idea of violence crossed his mind then. He wasn't above a fist-fight.

"Soda, I don't think-"

"Who, Sandy?" he asked, an awful mix of sadness and anger in his voice.

"It doesn't matter, Sodapop," she said quietly. "It doesn't change anything."

"Did you tell him?" he asked. "That you were pregnant? Did you tell the father?" The words hurt coming out of his mouth. They just plain hurt.

She paused for a moment. Looked him, at her feet, then him again. Took a breath, tried to say something, then lost her words. She noticed his face and weakly mustered out, "No. And I'm not going to."

"Then let me do it."

She shook her head, confused. "Sodapop, I don't understand. What do you mean?"

He put his face close to hers. "If you don't tell the guy, then no one will know, Sandy. You can have the baby and I can raise it like my own. As far as anyone has to know, it's my kid." It seemed brilliant. He commended himself for coming up with such an ingenious plan. Could it be that simple?

She turned away from him, towards the car. He wasn't getting it. He never would. To him, it wasn't about her cheating or being unfaithful. He would forgive her for her infidelity. It was about her living a disadvantaged life as a single teen mother – a life he didn't think she deserved. And she would never be worthy of someone like that.

"And what, Sodapop? Live here with your brothers? Live off of your paycheck at the DX? It wouldn't be enough."

"Then let's get married," he said. "Get our own place. I'll get a better job. You can graduate."

She opened the door to her car. "My parents would never approve, Soda. You know that."

He threw his hands up in the air. "Who gives a shit what your parents think? I bet they weren't too hot about you gettin' knocked up. Who the hell are they to tell you what to do with your life?"

"Soda," she said, urging him to lower his voice. "You're making a scene."

"Well, hell, Sandy! What else are you going to do?"

"I'm moving to Florida. To live with my grandmother. Tomorrow. I'm going to raise the baby out there." She gripped the top of the door.

"You can't do that," Sodapop pleaded. "You'd have a better life here. With me."

She scoffed incredulously. Her eyes filled with tears. "C'mon, Sodapop. Wake up and take a look around. We both know that's not true."

He rubbed his eyes. Hearing this news – especially now – shot his emotions to shit. He couldn't control it. Sadness wracked his whole body. She started to climb in her car. He walked towards her. Was it really worth the pleading? Her mind was already made up. It was painfully obvious that his feelings were not considered in her decision-making. He was merely collateral damage.

"So this is goodbye?" he asked, trying not to choke on his tears.

She rubbed her eyes. "Yeah, I guess it is."

Sodapop propped his elbows on top of the car. He covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he murmured into his palms.

"I can't mess up your life, Sodapop," she said. "This is my problem, not yours. You don't deserve to get dragged through the mud for my mistakes."

He stepped away and looked at her. He shook his head in disbelief. "Did you ever even love me?"

She started the car. "We're sixteen, Soda. Did we even know what love was?"

He started to walk towards the house. He thought about Darry's selflessness when he took custody of him and Pony. He thought of his parents – how they lived together and died together. Unified. He thought of his dreams of marrying Sandy - having kids and growing old together. Was he too naïve? He had known what love was. Did he anymore?

"Goodbye, Sandy," he said blankly. He ran his fingers through his hair and watched her buckle her seatbelt. She put her hand on the door and turned towards him.

"Thank you, Soda. For everything. I know you'll never be able to forgive me, but I couldn't leave without telling you. I'm sorry."

He nodded once. He wouldn't look her in the eyes. He had lost so much this week. He could almost laugh at his misfortune. Not bothering to see her out, he walked back inside. Had he been brought back down to Earth in that moment, he may have gotten one last glance at her. He didn't realize it would be the last time he ever saw her. Perhaps he still wouldn't have looked back.

The lights were on when he walked in. Darry was hanging up the phone in the kitchen, probably calling someone about Ponyboy and Johnny. He had left no stone unturned. Two-Bit swore he could be the F.B.I's most valuable tool in a crisis. For how bad Sodapop looked, he figured that Darry looked twenty times worse. He looked three times his age.

He had the sudden urge to give him the tightest hug he could physically muster. Instead, he stood in place, frozen. Astonished.

"Hey, Soda," Darry said bleakly. He was worn out and distracted. "Did you fix that damn clicking?"

"Yeah." It sounded faraway. Absent-minded.

"I saw Sandy pull up to see you. What'd she have to say?"

He cringed at the question. Innocent coming from Darry, but painful nonetheless. He planned to fill him in when it didn't hurt so much to think about. He exhaled, leaning his back against the wall. He shook his head, fighting tears. "Nothing that I didn't already know about myself."

Darry looked at him, confused. Before he was able to open his mouth and pry, the shrill ring of the phone pierced the room. He rushed over to it, gripping it with white knuckles. Soda watched from the living room.

"Hello?...Yes, this is him….Are you sure?...Are you sure?...Of course….He's there now?...Oh, thank God….Yes….Yes…We'll be right there." He slammed the phone onto the receiver and turned towards Sodapop, beaming.

"They found him, Sodapop," he said. Soda was ripped out of his misery for a split second. For a brief moment, he forgot. Ponyboy is alright, he repeated to himself over and over again. He's alive.

"They're at St. Michael's Hospital downtown. Let's go," Darry boomed, rushing to pull his boots on. But Soda didn't move. He stood plastered to the wall, like he was nailed there. Darry looked at him skeptically.

"Did you hear me, Soda? Let's go." He walked over to him, touching his arm gingerly. "Are you okay, bud?"

Sodapop looked in his eyes. He was jittery and panicky; roaring with anxiousness. The room spun with the gravity of his broken heart. Did knowing Ponyboy was safe change that? No, he thought. His heart still stung. It was a different kind of heartbreak.

"I'm gonna puke," he hollered, quickly pushing Darry to the side and racing to the bathroom just in time to empty his guts into the toilet.

Darry followed him into the bathroom, patting his back as he coughed. "Alright," he said sternly. "You're telling me in the car."

[hartigays]

81 for Harringrove please?

81. “Here’s my number, call me some time.”

steve is really fucking drunk.

he probably should’ve planned better, considering he drove here. but hey, hindsight is 20/20, or whatever the fuck they say.

tommy’s having one last blowout before everyone takes off for college. everyone except for steve, that is. he’ll still be moseying around this nightmare of a town come august, working for his father.

if that’s part of the reason why steve has downed half a bottle of whiskey in the last hour and a half, well. no one needs to know other than himself.

the other reason - the somehow bigger reason - is rather basic, really.

being in love is a bitch. plain and simple.

and quite frankly, calls for a night of a heavy drinking every now and then. or every other night, which has been steve’s philosophy as of late.

because honestly, watching billy shove his tongue down another girl’s throat right here in the middle of tommy’s living room is less than ideal. it’s even less than ideal when he does it in the middle of family video, like he knows that steve is there, knows that steve’s eyes will always be on him anytime he’s around.

like it’s some kind of fucking test, constantly gauging steve’s reaction.

which, realistically, is a little ridiculous. billy hargrove has made it very clear what his feelings are towards steve.

steve just so happens to be the unbelievable dumbass who somehow fell for him anyway.

it’s not like billy has ever even been like, remotely nice to him. maybe he’d stuck up for steve once or twice, when tommy stooped a little too low in his effort to pick on him as often as possible, but other than that? billy might as well just write i hate you across steve’s forehead in permanent marker.

that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if steve really thinks about it. maybe then he’d be constantly reminded to forget this strange obsession he’s developed for hawkins’ resident bad boy.

steve really doesn’t know how, or why, his attraction to billy even came to be. nor does he really even remember when. he’d just looked over one day, towards the end of the school year, and found himself looking at billy right as he tossed his head back, laughing loud and boisterous at something someone had said.

and it was just like, there he was. there this whole time, but steve had never really seen him. not until then.

a small thing, really. but it was enough.

steve’s affections grew, day by day, with every passing glance, every accidental touch during basketball, in every insult tossed his way that slowly started to become softer around the edges.

or maybe steve himself just became soft around the edges. soft and mushy emotions filling him up every time billy speaks to him, even when it’s words that are meant to hurt him.

steve takes another long swig from the bottle. feels the room tilt a little, feels that familiar burn in his gut.

he’s really fucking thankful that the bathroom happened to be free at this precise moment.

he unloads the contents of his stomach immediately after stumbling inside, shutting the door behind him clumsily.

steve recognizes that he probably should’ve eaten more today. but again, hindsight.

a pitiful groan escapes his lips as another round of wretching begins. his stomach rejects all the alcohol that steve has forced into it, until he’s just dry heaving over the toilet bowl.

hawkins high school’s former king. if they could only see him now, broken-hearted and dangerously intoxicated, his cheek resting on tommy h.’s fucking toilet seat as his stomach makes it its personal mission to destroy him.

“jesus, harrington. think you’ve had enough?”

every hair on steve’s body stands on end. he lifts his head, looking up at billy through wet lashes. his eyes must’ve been watering, but it hadn’t really registered in his mind until he looked at something other than the inside of the toilet bowl.

steve can’t keep his head up for long. just long enough to see billy eyeing the now mostly empty bottle of whiskey on the bathroom counter, before glancing back at him.

“fuck off. can’t you see i’m busy?”

billy snorts. steve squeezes his eyes shut, willing billy away with his mind.

it doesn’t work.

there’s a long stretch of silence, and for a moment steve thinks billy might’ve actually left. but then he hears the sink turn on, and the sound of billy rummaging through the cabinet beneath the sink.

then, steve nearly leaps out of his own skin in surprise. because billy places something ice cold and wet on the back of his neck without so much as a warning.

“hey, hey. it’s just a wet rag,” billy tells him. steve feels his other hand resting on his bicep, warm and heavy. “don’t shit your pants. if you haven’t already.”

“fuck you,” steve groans again, but doesn’t make any move to shove billy away.

truth is, the cold actually feels pretty damn good once steve gets used to it. or maybe it’s just the grounding weight of billy’s skin resting against his.

“here, sit up,” billy says, his voice gentler than steve has ever heard it. “come on, harrington, we don’t got all day here.”

steve makes a soft noise of protest when billy tugs at him until he’s sitting upright. his stomach churns, still queasy and full of alcohol.

billy puts a glass of water up to his lips, coaxing him to drink. watches him carefully, his brows furrowed and his blue eyes full of, what - concern?

he must be imagining things. again.

“ugh.” steve bats away the water glass, his face screwing up in displeasure once his stomach begins to turn unpleasantly.

billy just snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. puts the glass back up to his lips, gesturing for him to drink again. “nuh-uh. all of it, come on.”

steve glares at him. wants to tell him to fuck off again, to let him vomit up the contents of his stomach in peace.

he complies anyway.

“i’ll take you home,” billy offers once steve polishes off the water, setting the cup on the edge of the bathtub. “think you can walk?”

steve tries, he really does. but billy ends up nearly carrying him halfway to the camaro, supporting most of his weight.

the camaro feels cozy and warm once steve is tucked safely inside. but it smells overwhelmingly like billy - something like cigarettes and cologne and hairspray, with an undercurrent of something so uniquely billy that steve is pretty sure he won’t be able to live without after this moment.

the drive is mostly silent, until they pull up to steve’s parents’ big, empty house. until billy practically carries him inside again, up the stairs and into his room, where he then deposits him onto the bed.

“roll onto your side,” billy orders. huffs out a laugh when steve just rolls onto his stomach, smushing his face into his pillow. “you’re a fuckin’ pain in the ass, you know that?”

steve finally rolls onto his side, peering up at billy. “i might’ve been told once or twice.”

billy rolls his eyes. if he’s trying to come off as annoyed, it doesn’t work. it just looks endearing.

something warm and fuzzy blossoms in the pit of steve’s stomach.

“if i leave you here, do you promise not to choke on your own puke?” billy asks, arching a brow.

steve shrugs. “maybe.”

“that’s not very promising,” billy points out. shakes his head a little, like he’s had it up to here with steve’s antics.

steve just watches him through lidded eyes. billy looks like he’s about to turn to leave, before he pauses. he looks back down at him, chewing on his lip.

then, he leans down, pulling the covers over steve, taking his sweet time tucking him carefully into bed. when he’s finished, he hesitates again. before moving to tuck a lock of steve’s hair behind his ear, his cheeks tinged pink.

“i ever catch you drinking like that again, i’m gonna kick your ass.”

steve rolls his eyes, but cracks a small smile. it turns sad rather quickly, when he remembers why he’d been drinking like a monster in the first place.

“you wouldn’t stop kissing her,” steve says, before he can stop himself.

billy freezes. looks down at him with wide eyes, before hesitantly sitting on the edge of his bed.

“what?”

steve takes a deep breath, his cheeks burning. but the alcohol is still coursing through him, effectively skewing his judgment.

but he’s also just kind of fucking tired of all the bullshit.

“annie walker,” steve clarifies. “you were kissing her all night. you’re always kissing someone. but it’s - it’s never me.”

billy gives him this look, like he’s not sure if steve fully knows what he’s saying. “i think you’re just drunk, harrington.”

“i think that’s just a stupid excuse. i’m tired of excuses. i want it to be me. i want to be the one you want.”

a long stretch of silence, blue eyes burning into his with a scorching intensity. and then, “who says you’re not?”

“you say i’m not, every time you’re around me. you’ve always got some dumb girl’s tongue down your throat,” steve says, bitter.

“that’s - it’s not what you think.”

“oh yeah? then what? what’s that all about?” he asks, impatient. wanting billy to just fucking break it down for him already.

billy sighs, glancing up at the ceiling. looks back at him a moment later, tentatively reaching out and combing steve’s hair from his forehead. then says, simple and soft, “keeping up appearances.”

steve’s mind goes completely blank.

because, okay. it makes a lot more sense than steve was hoping it would. he kind of just wants to be mad, but. he gets it. and he’s not quite sure what to do with that.

“oh,” is all steve can come up with.

“yeah, oh.” billy gives him a goofy smile, a look steve has never seen on him but now that he has, he’s pretty sure he’ll need to see that look every day for the rest of his life just to feel happy.

billy stays silent for a beat, before standing up and crossing the room. grabs a piece of paper from steve’s desk, scribbling something onto it before walking back over. puts the paper on steve’s nightstand, right next to the bed.

“let’s talk about this tomorrow, yeah? you need to sleep this off,” billy suggests, his voice soft and small, even in the quiet of steve’s bedroom. “here’s the number to my new place. call me sometime? i’m, uh. i’m free all day.”

steve looks up at him with big eyes, before giving him a hopeful smile. “yeah?”

billy, only hesitating a moment, leans down and brushes his lips across steve’s forehead.

“yeah. get some sleep. i’ll - um. i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

steve just nods, then watches billy walk across the room. he gives steve one last long look before disappearing out the door. steve hears the front door open and shut a moment later.

the next day, he buzzes around the house, occupying his body and mind with an endless list of chores. doing anything he can to avoid looking at the phone.

because he’d woken up feeling like death warmed over, remembering the night’s events with startling clarity. and the more he remembers, the more he worries that billy himself had just been drunk off his ass, making spur of the moment decisions in his impaired state.

when steve finally nuts up and picks up the phone, his stomach churns unpleasantly. he tries to blame it on the hangover, rather than his anxiety over billy potentially not picking up the phone. but in the end, all his worrying was for nothing.

because billy picks up on the third ring, his voice laced with excitement when he speaks.

“thought you’d never call, pretty boy.”

send me a number + a pairing!

[peepingtoad]

@asaraltu​ cont. {x}

In hindsight, maybe he should have mentioned the part where their mission would inevitably lead them through ancient toad breeding grounds, whose flora had interesting effects on human physiology to say the least. Maybe he should have thought back with more clarity on the last time he’d made the trek to Iwayagama, or whatever snippets of memory he possessed of it, and warned Madara more gravely that there was something strange about it (for all that would have held him back from making progress, given he couldn’t seem to stand being here, being near him). 

But maybe, given what he’d surmised about the Uchiha and the tense exchanges they’d had so far, Jiraiya was just under the genuine impression it would never go that far. That someone like Uchiha Madara was above the carnal, had the power to completely nullify any chemical imbalances, or something. And of course, that whatever burgeoning, misguided attraction Jiraiya held towards him was one-sided beyond what sexy pollen or narcotic tree sap could do.

That could still be the case, of course. However there was something about his embarrassment, the quietness and shame of it, that gave Jiraiya a hunch it wasn’t so simple. It made him feel guilty, of all things, that Madara would make it sound like some cheap victory won only by the dirtiest means. Well, it was a victory, in a sense... but not in the way he was implying.

“I didn’t... I wasn’t trying to...” He faltered mid-sentence, and raked an anxious hand back through his hair, hoping it would release some of the heat that seemed to be trapped and vibrating inside his skull, his entire body a volcano primed to blow its top. It was impossible to say whether it was his own embarrassment that had him so highly strung, panicked guilt, or simply the result of remembering the way Madara’s mouth looked falling open in mindless pleasure. He shook his head, though it did nothing to shake away the flush dusting his cheeks. “Look. The toads are weird, okay? Really weird. They’re nosy and they’re meddling and they have a damn crystal ball.” 

‘Within which I may have caught a peek, a gander at a push, of a shirtless you the day after you arrived’, thankfully, was not spoken out loud. 

“Anyway, I can guarantee they’re doing this just to mess with me. Doesn’t matter how old I get, I’m always kind of the weird baby of the family they like to poke fun at... But I’m not the type of guy to use sex to try and hurt you, okay? For your information, I already knew I didn’t need hallucinogens or aphrodisiacs to be attracted to you. It’s probably why I—” 

The break in his thoughtlessly blurted out near-confession was abrupt, but it was obvious that ‘gave in so easily’ was what would have followed, regardless. However, it wasn’t a good excuse. There was no good excuse.

“I’m sorry... I should’ve controlled myself. I... you’re just...”

Insanely gorgeous and dark and magnetic. And what he wouldn’t give just to turn Madara around and try it again, kiss him again and show him it wasn’t just the whim of an altered mind... but in the brief moment his hand hovered pretty close to the clenched, gloved one, he thought better of it, and withdrew his arms into a protective fold over his chest, gaze lowered to the ground.

“If it makes you feel any better... Iwayagama doesn’t let the crystal ball reach his forest. So nobody saw.”

[moirai-au]

Timeline: Arc 1 - Early Days, december 2002. Mars is 5, Cecil is 27.

Warnings: minor injury, implied self-harm

Taglist: @immabethehero @bupine​ @tabbynerdicat @i-maybe-exist @its-ethan-bro @sandinthetardis @honestlyitsjustkenna @taikeero-lecoredier 

“Good morning Marius. How are you feeling today?”

The child sat still on the chair in front of him, his spindly legs swaying back and forth, not quite touching the ground. His little fists clenched the fabric of his pants tightly as he stubbornly kept his head down, his long, brown hair obscuring his features.

Cecil raised an eyebrow, stifling an exasperated sigh. “Hm. Still not much for a conversation I see.”

The five-year-old stayed silent, one tiny hand reaching up to scratch at the white gauze wrapped around his face. Henrik tutted at that, frowning disapprovingly. “Stop that. I know it itches now, but picking at it will just make it worse.”

Marius flinched at his authoritative tone and set his hand down, turning his head away. The German shook his head and got up, circling the desk to walk to the improvised examination table in the corner of the room. He turned back to the child and beckoned him over. “Alright, climb on. I’m changing your bandages today.”

 Three weeks. Three weeks since Cecil had received that fateful phone call, merely a fortnight after he’d lost- well, everything really. Three weeks since he’d heard that woman’s voice for the first time. “How did you get this number?” he’d asked. It didn’t matter, she’d responded.

And that was true. It didn’t. He’d just lost his medical licence, leaving him with no tangible way to support himself. Some might argue he was still young- twenty-seven wasn’t that much all things considered, he could still turn around a new leaf, find something else to do with himself…

But he refused to. He was a doctor, through and through, and a damn good one at that, no matter what dumb piece of shredded paper said otherwise. Quitting now meant coming back to Germany, to his family- and as much as Henrik loved them, and how supportive they’d always been of him… he couldn’t bring himself to. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

Which is why he’d taken the woman in on her offer.

 “Hm. This is healing quite nicely. Good. It will scar of course, but it will not be as bad as it could’ve been without proper treatment.”

The deal was simple enough: in exchange for a hefty payment every month, he was to oversee the recovery of a five-year-old boy from severe second-degree burns to the face, while his parents were away on an… extended business trip, it seemed, given that it had been going on for several weeks already.

Cecil bristled at the thought- if the boy’s parental units’ long absence wasn’t enough, the reason why they’d hired him of all people achieved to make the whole thing incredibly shady: they’d wanted their son to remain inside the property under any and all circumstances, and for his treatment to remain ‘off the records’. Hence the enlisting of a disgraced doctor to do the job.

The German wasn’t one to question the hand that fed him, not when he had no other way to keep exercising his profession. But this whole thing was rubbing him the wrong way, especially the child’s behaviour: completely silent, withdrawn, something haunted in his strange, slitted golden eyes.

The first time he’d met Marius, his burns still fresh and painful, Cecil had been understandably startled by those eyes, so vibrant and feline-like... but then again, he wasn’t paid to ask questions, so he didn’t.

 “Now don’t move, I’m almost done- there. That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

The child only stared at him, his face betraying no emotion other than disinterested numbness.

“...Right.” he muttered, turning away to gather his things. Gott, Just what had happened to this kid for him to act like this? “Now, keep those hands off your face, change the gauze every morning and evening, and don’t get exposed to the sun, understand? I’ll see you next week.”

 ***

 In hindsight, Cecil should’ve known something was up with this kid. He should've known it was a bad idea.

 They were in the usual office, on the ground floor of the mansion. Today was the day Marius could finally take off his bandages for good, the burns now completely healed. Thre doctor was kneeling next to the child, nimble fingers unraveling the white bands of gauze one by one. He’d wanted to do it in front of the standing mirror in the corner, so that the kid could see how well the healing process had gone under his expertise.

 But after the last bandage fell, the child’s face now bare and exposed, Cecil finally saw something shift in Marius; his golden eyes -usually dull and empty- widened, the mess of white and pink scar tissues shifting around them. Something settled on his youthful features, something akin to panic. Fear. Horror.

The five-year-old’s breathing grew rapid, loud, and two trembling hands reached up to his face, not quite touching the skin.

Cecil felt his hackles rise up, his instincts starting to scream at him -to do what, he wasn’t sure- but before he could act on them, Marius grabbed fistfuls of his long, brown hair, curling in on himself-

 -and wailed.

 This was the first time Cecil had heard the kid make any kind of noise. It sounded hoarse- from weeks of disuse, from childish distress, despair, denial. It hurt his ears in a way that a simple scream couldn't, making him wince in pain and his hands fly to the sides of his skull to block it out reflexively. 

He watched, too stunned to move or speak, as the mirror in front of them shattered into pieces, razor-sharp shards falling to the floor, some sent flying in every direction. He distantly felt one of them nick him in the arm and cheek, but he was too busy processing the fact that everything in the room had started floating up, surrounded by a vibrant purple glow, as Marius kept shrieking.

 ***

 “So this has happened before.”

A tiny nod.

“I take that this is how you burned yourself.” And why his caretakers are being more elusive than an actually competent nurse in this city.

Another nod, punctuated by a wet sniffle.

“And you have no idea what those... abilities are, or where they came from.”

Silence. Cecil ran his hand through his hair, letting out a heavy, unsteady sigh. “Scheiße.”

 Of course. Of course there’d been a catch, since the very beginning- the German had expected it. Well... he’d expected something. Not… whatever that was. He straightened up, bumping the back of his head on the wall he was sitting against, his young patient hugging his knees next to him. Glass shards and knocked-over chairs still littered the floorboards, evidence of Marius’ meltdown.

Cecil shifted and hissed at the sharp pain that flared up his arm, rolling his sleeve up to consider the damage. Thankfully the glass hadn’t cut deep- the bleeding had already stopped. He’d still have to clean it and dress it once he came back to his apartment…

He heard a gasp, and turned to look back at Marius; the child had scooted closer, his bright golden eyes fixed on the older man’s arm. More precisely, on the blood-coated cut on said arm.

 And on the dozen similar-looking scars, thin and almost chirurgical. Perfectly parallel to one another. 

 Some seemed old, white lines of scar tissue on white skin. Some were new, red, still scabbing. Still healing.

Cecil pulled his sleeve back down sharply, ignoring the sting the sudden movement caused. “I’m fine,” he seethed between clenched teeth, “this is nothing. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

He tapped his chin idly, expecting the grounding feeling of a surgical mask- but he found nothing. Huh. Must’ve slipped off his face and under a desk while the lightshow was going on. “Right, okay…  First, you’re going to help me clean up this mess. Then we’ll decide what to do next.”

***

 As it turned out, they weren’t sure what to do next. Cecil wasn’t versed in strange psychic powers or whatever Marius had going on- he was a man of science for Gott’s sake, how was he supposed to deal with this?!

So he elected to keep visiting the kid, learn more. Getting information was the base to all scientific endeavors after all.

 ...Although the sight that awaited him that day was equal parts absurd and pitiful.

 He stared down at the kid, his face the usual mask of irritation and mild disappointment. Then he took a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly. 

Well. At least he knew where his mask had gone last time. “Take that ridiculous thing off. You look daft.”

Marius shook his head in refusal. The thin, greenish-blue surgical mask was fastened around his head, effectively hiding his scars from the world, two circular holes cut through it letting the child see through his round glasses. 

Cecil glowered at him. “You can’t hide behind a mask and avoid looking into mirrors for the rest of your life.”

The child only stared in response, with a look that clearly said “watch me”- a deadpan look that had no place on a five-year-old kid’s face.

 The older man pinched his nasal bone and groaned- he could already feel a headache forming. That brat would probably throw a temper tantrum if he forced him to go outside in that state. And given what tended to happen when the brat was upset...

Slowly, an idea started blooming in the doctor’s mind. It would only act as a bandaid over the real issue at hand, but… “I have to leave, I have important work to get back to.” he grumbled, averting his gaze. “When I come back tomorrow, you better be dressed. We’re going outside.”

He raised a hand, cutting off any form of protest from Marius. “This is non-negotiable. I won’t have one of my patients stay cooped up like some kind of hermit, do you understand?” He squinted, his tone harsh and cold. “Unless you’d prefer I don’t come back at all?”

Marius’ eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, raising his little hands in a pleading gesture. Of course Cecil wouldn’t just up and leave the child to fend for himself- he couldn’t, both because he was paid to take care of him in the first place, and because whatever was left of his morals would not let him. But the child didn’t know that. 

 Either way, the threat seemed effective, for the kid refrained to pester him for the rest of his visit.

***

“You’ll still attract attention with this on your face, I hope you realize that.”

 Marius didn’t grace the doctor with a response, too busy gaping at the sleek, matte black mask Cecil had all but shoved into his hands as soon as he arrived that morning.

The German crossed his arms sternly. “For your information, I do not approve of this. But if that’s what it’ll take for you to leave this place, then I’ll play along. But for god’s sake please take off that travesty on your head.”

The child didn’t need to be told twice- he all but ripped off the blue paper mask off his face, discarding it without care. He held the solid, cat-shaped one Cecil had bought the day before at a party store, and fastened the straps around his skull in a frenzy.

As soon as he was done, he gingerly poked at the mask with curious fingers, testing out the feeling of it resting against the marred skin. Then he looked up at Cecil.

 Now, the doctor didn't know how to lip-read, but the way the child’s mouth moved, slow and clear to make sure the man understood… there was no mistaking it. Marvin was thanking him, in the only way he could at the moment.

“...Do not mention it. I just don’t want you to keep ruining my supplies.” Cecil scoffed, pushing down the warm feeling that the sight has sparked in him. “Now. Are you ready to go?”

Marius nodded, his lips forming a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. It was fleeting, and fragile. But it was there all the same.

[diannelamerc]

Yes, the Civil War Was Fought Over “States’ Rights”-- And the Most Important of Those Was Slavery

I am seeing more and more late night hosts, news commentators, and people I generally respect apparently holding the truth to be self-evident that anyone who thinks "states’ rights" were at all involved in the secession of the Confederate states, or thinks that anything except "slavery" was a fighting point in the Civil War, is abhorrently, callously ignorant.

Mind you: Not people trying to somehow say it "wasn't about slavery”; just anyone saying it was "about slavery and states’ rights (and drastically shifting economic trends and other complicated matters)".

Somehow as if saying that Hitler's agenda encompassed anything more than just the demolition of the Jewish people somehow makes you a Holocaust denier.

I was taught that states rights were a major issue in the war, with a key one of those states’ rights at issue being the issue of slavery. 

When I was in grade school, Lincoln was the Great Emancipator (and a distant cousin of mine! Cool!) who started a war to free all the slaves. That's a very simplified introduction to the history that's appropriate for conveying the basics to a grade-schooler.

In high school and college, I was old enough to learn what it meant to say, as a professor once did, that "History is the process of turning complicated truths into simple lies".

People and their societies and their interactions are hugely complex. Saying "Hitler started a terrible war and tried to kill all the Jews" is not false, but it is a “lie” in its simplification of the situation. I'm not talking about mitigating forces or excuses, I'm acknowledging that different levels of detail are appropriate for different groups. A "true" sense of what happened is very different to a grade-schooler than it is to a scholar specializing in World War II. No one in the history of humanity could possibly know specialized-scholar-level detail about all of recorded history. Thus there are different levels of "true"--hopefully none of them actually false--in the knowledge of any historical event, levels that differ greatly in their balances of detail and summary.

Thus I was taught, as I grew older, in a liberal part of Los Angeles in the 1980s and 90s, in a very liberal family, that saying "the Civil War was all about slavery" was a glib, dismissive, low-level summary of a historically critical series of events that an adult should understand to be a more complex and detailed situation than the quick summary that was given to kids.

It was actually a hard sell: No one wants to have to realize that their heroes have flaws and mixed motives. But there was pretty damning evidence: Lincoln's written statement that:

My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or to destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that.*

Then there's the fact that the Emancipation Proclamation specifically did not free all of the slaves. It only freed the slaves in states that had refused to rejoin the union by a specific deadline—Lincoln used it as a club to try to force the Southern states back into compliance. It didn't work, and the result was the irony that any slaves in loyal Union states or territories--and there were many--remained legally enslaved, whereas slaves in Confederate states, as those  states surrendered, became legally free.

To all my knowledge, Lincoln was personally an abolitionist, and must have been happy to have been able to free people. But as a President, he explicitly prioritized re-unification of the country ahead of abolishing slavery. People in a conflict always have slightly differing motivations: On Lincoln’s part it was a fight for the continuation of the country, complicated by the looming and volatile issue of continued economic and social dependence on slavery in the South. On the Confederate side, it was officially a fight about the right of the states to leave the union in order to protect their own rights: front and center being the critical issue of Southern dependence on slavery.

So, when I say the causes of the Civil War include “states’ rights”, I’m not in any way denying that slavery was an absolutely key issue all around. It was primarily what the South wanted those rights to protect, and specifically the leverage Lincoln used to try to force them back. Many--maybe most--people on the ground saw it as “slavery is wrong” vs “we need to continue slavery, or our society as we know it will collapse” (which it ultimately did).

The war was not a simple dispute over the humanitarian, egalitarian rights of all Black people everywhere. It was complicated by the fact that the southern economy and culture as it was and had been simply could not survive without slavery. One side said that slavery was too high a price to pay for maintaining anyone’s society; the other side--the society actually in question--disagreed. Vehemently.  

Saying that the Civil War was solely about slavery--to say that The Great Emancipator started a war in order to restore and defend the rights of enslaved Black people everywhere--is simplistic to the point of inaccuracy.

The Civil War was a complicated conflict between leaders over power at the state and federal level, focused largely on the competing moral and economic impact of slavery in different areas of the country. The idea that slavery was wrong and should be abolished was not new. The Union did not free all of the slaves. The South had such a dependence on slavery that its abolishment would destroy their economy and society. No one’s motives were simple.

That the recent protest movement is about more than just George Floyd himself, does not make his death any less important or more forgivable. That the protests have shifted to focus on bigotry in policing in the United States does not mean that they’re not also about deeper, more tangled webs of racial and economic injustice running throughout our country’s history.

To see this momentous event as being rooted in complexities far beyond simply “Lincoln knew all slavery and prejudice is wrong and fought for freedom” vs “the South inexplicably hated Black people so much they would fight to the death to keep them from ever being free” is not an excuse, avoidance, or deflection of the issue of slavery. It is a stance that extends the simple answer into something more, not less.

---------

And The Study of History Marches On:

In the process of verifying Lincoln’s quote above, I found more. Wikipedia makes a point that many current historians (in works from 2006 and 2014, specifically) believe that the letter this quote is taken from was a very clever and effective strategy by Lincoln in order to sway the specific man he was writing to. That, in fact:

“It was one of Lincoln's most skillful public relations efforts, even if it has cast longstanding doubt on his sincerity as a liberator." Historian Richard Striner argues that "for years" Lincoln's letter has been misread as "Lincoln only wanted to save the Union.”*

And so we learn yet more nuance. They way you constantly do with history.

I, personally, love the thought that Lincoln was deliberately downplaying his concerns about slavery as a president, while “intend[ing] no modification of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men everywhere could be free.”[2]

But that just leaves us with different issues. Lincoln still did not free Union slaves, apparently because of concern about his legal right to actually do that in states that remained loyal vs states who could be forced into concessions in order to rejoin the union. The key worry was that the entire proclamation would be overturned in later legal dispute about Lincoln over-reaching his authority toward Union states.

So my childhood hero gets bumped back up a step higher in my heart. But my point remains the same: These things are never simple, even with 150 years of study and hindsight.

I strongly suspect that the average fighter in this conflicts was not either a Southern soldier who consciously believed “all Black people must be slaves”, nor is it a police officer who consciously believes “we should beat Black people every chance we get”. But seeing the removal of slavery as a danger to your way of life meant that you thought the institution of slavery needed to remain intact. Likewise seeing minorities as generally an inherent threat to law and order that must be controlled at all times means you think the institution of racially biased military-style policing needs to remain.

The Civil War was very much about slavery. It was also intertwined with many complexities over strategic, economic, and legal issues--such as states’ rights--that weren’t that clear cut, even with states in open rebellion. So, again, can we stop reflexively forcing the simplification of history by vilifying people for adding a more complex viewpoint?

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All citations: June 12, 2020, 6pm UTC, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abraham_Lincoln_and_slavery#Emancipation_Proclamation