#like imagine how fucking devastating that would be after fourteen fucking years of waiting

[bronte-deserves-better]

do you ever just think about tiergan alenefar and start crying because same

[eldritchcreatureofwords]

I would just like to have a rant--and a thought experiment. Play along with me. Because not enough people realize just how badly Vi has been traumatized. I don't really know what to call this; it's not a 'fanfic', exactly. More like a...story-scussion.

Yes, what happened to Powder/Jinx was fucking horrific. It was the worst fucking thing, it was devastating, and my heart breaks for Powder. For Jinx. For her mental health, for the way she thinks of herself, for the horrible missteps that lead to a baby, bitty child thinking she had been abandoned and forgotten after she very accidentally did something unspeakable. But what I don't think gets enough notice is that Vi is still living in that day, six years ago, has never gotten to catch her fucking breath, and frankly, got the shittier end of the stick that entire night while Jinx got the chance to go to sleep-metaphorically.

What do I mean? Let's take a blow by blow here. First, let's put ourselves in Vi's shoes. Imagine with me for a minute- settle in. This is gonna get long. You are Vi.

You did something bad. Something reckless and stupid and despite the best attempts of both yourself and your guardian figure(s), it's not getting better. You slowly start to realize that, as a person in charge of others, you have the responsibility here, and that even though you are only fourteen/fifteen years old, you know what you have to do. You have to take ownership of the mess you made. Otherwise, people you're supposed to protect, people you love, will be hurt. So you make your peace. You say your good-byes because you don't know what will happen next. You could never see them again. You could see them in a week, a year, a month. You want them to remember you gently, lovingly, as you are right now. And then you leave. You send your confession to the right people, and you wait where you told them to meet you, and you have nothing to do but sit on this. Wondering- will they hurt me? Will they kill me? Where will they take me? What will happen? Will I ever get to go home? Will I ever see my family again? Your leg jitters with anxiety. You clench and unclench your fists. You can't breathe.

Your entire world is changing. And remember; you are a child. And then you hear it. Footsteps. You take a deep breath, stand up, ready to take your lumps, when in walks- -your father. Dad. He loves you, he's raised you, he's protected and cared for and fought for your and taught you to fight for yourself your entire life. And now he's here, and he's frantic. He's scared. You've never seen him scared before. He tells you he loves you. He tells you, in his way, that he's proud of you, that you have a good heart. And you know, in the back of your mind, that he's doing what you did, but you don't want to face it, even as he bodily backs you into another room, even as he slams the door in your face and locks it. And no matter how much you pound, and yell, and call out, you can't do anything. You can't stop anything, you can't change anything. You are trapped and forced to watch as the person you love takes your chains from you and wraps them around his own arms. And as if this wasn't bad enough, the world turns upside down when, inches from you, people start dying horrifically. The adults that you know, that you love, even people you don't care about but are supposed to be strong and in control, they start dropping like flies. And it's due to something you've never seen before, something you can't even understand. And you can do nothing. You can do nothing but watch as your father's friends die, as blood smears the walls and suddenly the man who has been untouchable, invulnerable, invincible your entire life weeps, and falls, and then drops. Dead or unconscious, you don't know. And you are trapped and forced to watch. And then they're gone. They're gone, and for God knows how long you're stuck in there, trapped in there, sobbing, wailing, screaming because how could you let this happen, how did you get found out, how could you be so stupid, if you had just listened, if you had been better, been stronger, been faster, been smarter, maybe this wouldn't have happened. You are fifteen. And you sit on this. For minutes, or hours. You can't scream anymore. You don't have the energy. You weep into your knees and you wonder if you're just going to be trapped here, forever. But no. Of course not. Because one of the people who died out there, your friend, your father's friend, was a father, too. And his son is here, and his son is sobbing, and now you must push aside your guilt, your fear, your sorrow and pain because they need you. They need you. You have to be strong for them. So you slam down on it. You swallow the tears, you don't let him see because if he sees you crying it's just going to be worse for him. And then he tells you he saw it happen. He's ten, maybe eleven, and he saw all of that happen. It breaks your heart, and also it's a heavy weight, because he's yours now too, and you'll have to take care of him, keep him safe, and there's already three people you have to do that for. (Oh, yeah, and you have to tell them that their friends are dead, how the hell are you going to do that, let alone that Dad is dead, that they're on their own now, that you're all alone except for each other? ) But then he tells you that your dad might not be dead. That, in fact, he's probably alive, he's been taken somewhere. And he knows where.

And now you really don't have time to mourn. You are fifteen. You don't know anyone else to turn to. Everyone who could help you is dead. You have to be the leader. You have to make a plan. You have to keep them safe and get your dad back and keep them calm. So you shove it down harder. You push it away and you start thinking, start taking charge, getting events in motion.

And the entire time you are telling your friends what happened, the entire time you're planning and thinking, all you can remember is that last time you were in charge things literally blew up. (You don't know what the words 'recursive function' mean but if you did you'd probably laugh or cry.) And you can't break down. You can't cry, you can't curl into a ball and sob, you don't have a chest you can collapse on and weep for the people you lost. You can't take a minute to breathe, to process. You have to think about your gang, your kids, who are insisting on helping.

You have to think about how you're going to get your dad back, and keep them alive, and keep something from going horribly wrong, and what to do if something goes horribly wrong anyway. You have to think about your little sister, who wants to come, wants to help. But she's the last person you have. Your baby sister, the person you have to protect, and take care of and keep safe. You have to tell her she can't, she has to stay here, to stay safe. Your little sister, who you've been working with and working with the make her stronger, braver, to teach her to trust herself and trust you and she got so close to it and she's so ready to throw herself into the fire for you, for your dad, she's so brave and so scared and you have to crush that. After working for it for so long, you have to tell her she's not ready. You have to treat her like a child again and you can see how much it destroys her but this is the choice you have to make. Do you let her come with you, knowing you'll be distracted with fear and worry, knowing she's half the age of everyone else in your group and prone to bad choices? Or do you break down all you've worked for, strike a blow in her confidence and hope that if this goes well, if you do good, that you can build her back up again later? Hope that you can find a way to let her have been a part of this so that she doesn't think she is useless, worthless, a jinx? You are a child. And you have to make these choices, these calls, because no one else can. So now she is heartbroken, and you can hear her sobbing as you leave the place you've called home for so long with your family behind you, looking up to you, trusting you, respecting you and ready to do whatever you tell them. Whatever happens next is on your shoulders. You get to carry that thought the entire way to your father. You get to think if they die it's on me. If they get hurt it's on me. If this goes wrong, it's on me. You get to imagine scenarios over and over in your head- worst case, best case. You get to wonder if he's already dead. You get to jump at shadows, expecting someone to attack you at any moment. Expecting that thing to be roaming the streets, stalking them, looking for it's next victim.

And the whole time you have to pretend you're not scared shitless. Now you get there. You get your people in. Everything goes perfectly. Flawlessly. Too perfectly. You've been trapped. So now, while desperately worried about your father, who is alive but trapped and beaten, weak and hurting, you have to stay in control. You have to stay calm.

So even though you are scared out of your mind, you shove it down, you pull on your dad's gauntlets, and you turn to face down the man who caused all this to happen. And you start fighting, while your friends are trying to free your father. You are painfully aware you're on display as you take on all comers- desperately trying to stall, to keep them at bay, to protect your brothers, your father, but you are getting tired. You're fifteen. You have been running on adrenaline and fear for several hours now. Silco isn't kind or fair and you have been tackled, cut, held and hit, fought one on one, two on one, three on one for what feels like hours now even if it's only been minutes. You're in pain, you're exhausted, you're getting sloppy. The gauntlets are heavy. Getting up is harder every time. And the man who ordered your friend's father killed, who kidnapped your dad, is watching you with an infuriating smirk. And then, as you finally, finally beat down the last of the bodies he has to throw at you, and stand, heaving, panting, victorious, you hear the screaming, and you know with terrible, disheartened certainty that it was all for nothing. And not only that, but you finally see what it is that ripped apart your father's friends; and it's something that used to be human. Used to be a boy, only a year or two older then you. Used to be someone you knew, if only a little. He's a monster now. He's screaming, disfigured, his muscles and bones moving in ways muscles and bones aren't supposed to move, drooling and dripping purple, veined in purple, and getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger. He used to be human. You are exhausted. You're fighting to stay on your feet, you're fighting for air. But you have to keep going. So you do. But you don't stand a chance, and despite your best attempt, despite throwing everything into an attack on this thing, he catches you by the neck like you are a fly to be swatted. You black out for a minute from the force of it, and when you come to again, you can't breathe. You can't breathe, and you know, in one horrifying moment, that if this thing decides to it can kill you without trying. You are fifteen, and you are staring death directly in the face. There is nothing you can do. There is no way you can free yourself. You are going to die here. But you don't. Not because of anything you do, but because for some reason it lets you go- it toys with you, stalks you like an animal playing with prey, lets you crawl away desperately because it knows you can not get away from it. You are so scared. You are so scared but you're not allowed to be. You have to think. You have to plan. You manage to get back to your family and lock the monster outside of the room, and you know it won't hold for long but maybe, maybe, you have bought them some time. Your dad is halfway free. Your brother has nearly found a second exit. Maybe you'll be ok. "You did good." Your father says, and for a moment, just an instant, you can breathe. He sounds calmer. Better. Things will be ok. You just have to hold. This. Door. He's up. The doorframe shakes. It cracks. The monster is breaking the doorframe loose. One, maybe two more blows and it's going to go. You're fifteen. You're a child. You do not have the strength or size to stop him. But still, you push back, with all your strength, all your will. Hold. This. Door. He's up. Your brother has gotten another exit secured. He is free. You've done it. You did it!

And then the world explodes in heat and fire. When you come around, there is nothing but pain, pain, pain. You are trapped. You can't move, you can barely breathe, and the agony washes through you in waves. You can feel intense heat on your face, and everything blazes with pain and you can hear, from a million miles away, a fight. You open your eyes to see your father standing between you and the monster. Your father, defending you against monsters. He is a big man dwarfed by the beast in front of him but he's not scared. He attacks, viciously, and for a moment he looks like he might run the monster off. But then the monster throws him around like a child. As your vision comes back, you can see everything more clearly and you wish, oh how you wish you didn't. You can see your brother's arm, sticking out from under the ruble of the roof. You strain, not wanting to see but needing to see. They are completely crushed by the roof. Unmoving. Limp. They're dead. They're dead.

Your brothers, alive and well just moments ago, victorious and proud just moments ago, are dead.

They'd given you smiles.

They'd beamed with pride.

Just seconds ago you'd been about to make a smart ass comment to them, you'd been thinking how proud you were, and now your little brothers are both dead. In seconds. And you could do nothing. The sorrow breaks out of you without your permission. You want to wail, to howl with it, but even that is denied you because you can't get a full breath. Because it hurts too badly to cry. But you can't stop the tears, either. You want your dad. You want to go home. You want to go back and undo all of this. You want to die. And what's worse is your eyes land on something so familiar. So painfully familiar. Your little sister's weapon, laying inches from you. Her explosive weapon. You don't have time to process it, because even as you watch, your father picks himself up again, starts the fight again. Protecting you. Defending you. Standing between you and the danger. Fighting for you. He roars defiance, and then- -and then the man who brought you all here steps up, and stabs him. First in the back, then in the stomach. And your father falls. Dead. And you can't do anything. You can't stop it. All you can do is struggle. All you can do is desperately try to free yourself before the monster comes for you.

You are in agony, you are exhausted, and you are trapped. But you can't stay down. Your sister needs you. Your father might, somehow, still be alive. So you try. You try to pull yourself free, you strain with your 'free' arm to push yourself out, to get leverage, to do anything, but God, it hurts, and God, you are so tired. But you have to. You have to. She needs you. So you try again. And again, harder each time. But even trying your hardest, your strength has long since failed, and you make no progress, And as you work up the strength and the will to keep struggling, as you feel yourself getting the energy to keep trying, you hear the worst noise you could ever hear. Footsteps. The monster finds you. And for the second time in one night, you are totally at the mercy of someone- something- else. You have no more strength. You have no more energy. You look up into his face, and you see, for a moment, the boy only a year or two older then you. You make eye contact. You see him, and he sees you. Please, you think, please. And for a moment, he looks almost sad. Almost like he hears you. But then he snarls and the boy slips away again behind the monster. He advances. You are going to die. But you don't.

You don't, because the monster that is your father charges in and grabs him, rips him away from you, slams him up against the wall. It is not your father. It is deformed, twice as big as the first monster, twice as hideous, roaring and screaming and you listen as the two fight, like huge, ancient animals. The first monster doesn't stand a chance, though. Your father, the monster, snaps it's neck. Your father- your gentle, kind father who hated violence and never lifted a hand in anger and had a warm laugh and soft hands and big, smothering bear hugs- snaps the neck of a monster that used to be a boy. One handed.

It's not your father any more. And then he comes for you. You loved this man. You trusted this man. You adored him, and loved him. But this isn't him. This isn't your father. And the sorrow and pain in his eyes when he sees the fear and disgust in yours is palpable. He turns from you, making noises like a wounded animal, and while he's distracted going after the men outside you take the opening to try and scramble away. You can hear the thing that used to be your father roaring a name. You can feel the heat of the fire, the creak of the building.

But you can't make it to your feet. You have nothing left. You're on the edge of giving up when he comes back, the thing that used to be your father; but when you look up, all you see is your father, and you reach for him, needy, exhausted. Dad. And he scoops you up, and he flings both of you out the window- as the Goddamn building explodes. If your brothers were still alive, there is no way they are now. You hit the ground. When you come back around, a second time in less then an hour, you find your father already almost dead. He rasps out a last message, and it is nothing like the warm, loving words from before-what feels like years ago but was only hours, only this afternoon. He tells you to take care of your sister- and then he dies. No words of love. No words of affirmation. He leaves you with the responsibility you already knew you had and then he dies, there, under your hands. Now you howl. But even then, it is short, and broken, and weak compared to what you want. You're in too much pain. You're too tired. Everyone is dead. You came to save him and everyone is dead. You are alone. Your father is dead, your brothers are dead, your uncle...the only people you have left in this whole world is a little boy and your sister. You'll have to care for them. Protect them. Raise them. All alone. All by yourself. For the second time in your life, you are surrounded by destruction and fire and sobbing over the body of a dead parent. Well. At least now you have a minute, finally, finally you have a minute to breathe, to grieve. You can mourn them. You can let yourself feel the pain, work through it, rest and gather your strength. Think of what to do, what to say. Except- you don't. Because here comes your little sister.

[lifenodaijobu]

Just a little list of my soft Draco obsession

For  @vemodalensx

Theres a few here but I’ve left some out since the list was getting a bit long. I might make another list with more.

The list separated between cute Draco and vulnerable Draco just so you can choose whether or not you want a bit of sadness with your softness ^3^

Oh and ofc it goes without saying that the whole list is Bottom Draco hehe

Cute Soft Draco

Flower Crowns (2.4k words)

It started with a single flower 🥀 Draco makes flower crowns for Harry and that is how the whole school finds out about them. A happy dose of Harry with flowers in his hair, and a smitten Draco.

Dreaming of you (21k words)

Harry has nightmares, he wishes for a night when he can sleep without nightmares. What happens when he starts dreaming of Draco Malfoy? Draco left the wizarding world after the war, he's a librarian and lives peacefully in muggle London, what happens when Harry fucking Potter shows up at his work place?

Honey (

Harry is sick of Draco's oh-so-adorable endearments.

The Care and Management of Volatile Veelas 

Harry adopts a Veela. He really didn’t mean to.

Quidditch Wife (Part 2)

Theres no real summary for this except for  It's got all my favourite guilty pleasures, like protective!Harry and vulnerable!Draco, with a side of jealous!Harry and SportyQuidditch!Harry (and I think the top!Harry rather goes without saying).

All our pieces....fall right into places series

The first story:  Draco had had a crush for a while and now that he had Harry in his bed...He was everything that Draco needed.

Trick or Treat

Harry had no idea that he was such a fetishist - a fact which he discovers on Halloween.

Pretty

Harry finds a pair of stockings in the back of their dresser.

The Sweater

After being forced to room together in 8th year, Draco and Harry become friends and decide to continue their living arrangements post Hogwarts. The only problem is, Draco can't seem to stop stealing Harry's clothes.

1095 Roses for a life time

Being woken up by the lips of your boyfriend is always a nice surprise, especially on the morning of yours third anniversary of dating, which leads to hot and passionate morning activity. But all this is just to indulge in themselves, Harry's surprise includes roses and a promise for a lifetime. Will they be the right choice?

Get your kinks out

Harry plays seeker for the Magpies, and he discovers that one of his teammates secretly wears lace panties. What begins as a sexual relationship becomes increasingly complicated by Harry’s fame, Draco’s family, and Harry’s ambivalent feelings about dominating Draco.

Can’t say no

Draco really has the worst friends. When they put a spell on him that he has to say no to everything Harry says.....things don't turn out well.

OR

That time when Harry proposes and gets turned down because of his horrible friends.

What Draco wants

Out of anything a petty fight with Harry Potter could have led to, Draco Malfoy least expected it to end with him bent over a table, questioning his relationship and feelings for Potter, and having the best sex of his life.

Criminal

Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit? 

Things Change

Harry and Draco's friends notice something different about them when they fight. See what they find out when they walk down an empty hallway. 

Whats a little veritasium between two sworn enemies?

Draco Malfoy has a nasty habit of always coming across such bad luck no matter where circumstance presents itself and unfortunately that doesn't seem to change when his bloody nemesis Harry Potter over hears him talking about Veritaserum potions in the hallways past curfew. ( It was Pansy fault really)

Harry wants to know what the Slytherin boy is up to, especially with how nervous Malfoy is, but is that ALL Harry wants to know?

Mr Right Now - side note: Cedric/Draco

What do you do when you're feeling down about your ex? Make him jealous! Story features Cedric Diggory and Draco Malfoy trying to win back their loves, but somehow end up falling into each other's arms

For the love a kitten 

With Voldemort Dead, life is not easy for Harry as Old friends become enemies and old enemies become friend. With the return of three Slytherins, Harry life is turned upside down.

How to prepare for a wedding night

I have a neighbour. He is stuck in a loveless relationship and an arranged marriage. He has zero experience in bed. He needs my help so that his love life won't suck for the next few decades. He needs a sex teacher. Oh... and the neighbour happens to be Draco freaking Malfoy. And I might be a little tiny bit in love with the git...

Draco's Scent

In which Harry can't be around Draco for long without the boy's stupid smell messing with his mind, and he really, really hates that.

Turn The Heat Up

Wonky Cooling Charms result in interesting revelations

Flirt

Draco and Hermione make a devastating duo at the Ministry as the respective Department Heads of Wizarding Culture Preservation and Muggle Relations. When Harry Potter gets involved in their latest joint project, Draco can’t seem to stop himself from constantly flirting with him even when it doesn’t seem to affect the golden boy at all. He’s wrong. Harry is most definitely affected. Includes Slytherin shenanigans, Draco sucking at quidditch, and Harry trying not to be charmed. Draco POV.

Angsty/Vulnerable Soft Draco

The Draco Malfoy incident - side note: I cried big time

Draco Malfoy is best friends with a Hufflepuff. A HUFFLEPUFF! He's also partnered with a redhead git, trying to hide from an obsessive green-eyed saviour and has become overly fond with sunrises. It's exhausting. Can't a man plan an assassination in peace around here?

I’m not in your dreams

Draco has dreamt with Harry's voice since he was fourteen, so there's no doubt for him about who his soulmate is. Now, in their Eighth Year, Harry has finally dreamt with his soulmate's voice too. The problem is that Draco was born mute.

Yours for the taking

Draco was raised to be the perfect Omega, but there are things even he cannot endure. When he discovers just what Tom Riddle's plans for him are once he's claimed him he is confronted with an impossible decision. Only one thing remains clear: he will never be able to go back home.

Luckily, Harry Potter is there to save the day

Rough on you - side note: Dark Harry. This is more vulnerable Draco than soft Draco so please read the tags before you start the story :) I was unsure whether I wanted to add this here but hey-ho

"I'm the only one that can give you want you really want." Harry spun Draco around and held his arms at his side and he pressed against his back, whispering against his throat. "That can force you, that can humiliate you… that can hurt you, and you want it. You want me."

Harry is having a bad day. Draco just cannot learn to keep his mouth shut. Neither of them would have predicted it would lead to this.

But who guards the dragon?

This is an expansion of my one-shot, It'll be Okay. You don't have to read it first, it will be in the story. Requested. DMHP Sub/Dom relationship. Slash. Don't like, don't read. Harry thinks a few thinks through, then comes into his creature inheritance. He finds out that he is the dominant mate to one Draco Malfoy. But things are never easy for the boy who lived

Taken For Granted

Having pined for Harry for long enough, Draco decided that it was time to give up and move on. What happens when Harry realizes too late what he's lost?

Mourning

Harry returns to school to complete his NEWTs. There he finds a much changed Draco Malfoy and surprisingly subdued Professor Snape.

In your arms, rests my world

Harry presses his mouth to Malfoy's forehead; he wants to tell him that he’ll never leave, that he wouldn’t dream of it.

“You make me feel safe, Potter” Malfoy whispers. “You keep me safe.”

Inside your mind

Goyle's taken it upon himself to act as Malfoy's personal, one-man guard and Harry can't help but feel like it's only making the bullying worse.

"I'll Protect You," and you can seal that with an Unbreakable Vow

His friends may tease but Harry doesn't feel bad for keeping a close eye on the Slytherin boy of one Draco Malfoy, after all someone has to do it. So when Harry secretly follows the pure-blood boy out past the courtyard, there's nothing strange or unusual about it; nor is it wrong.

Unfortunately the same can not be said for the scenario Harry accidentally stumbles upon as he can't help but stare in horror. It's not just wrong. It's absolutely despicable and Harry, well, Harry just has to do something about it.

A Big Black Sky

Draco shifts his head as he turns to look at Scorpius, his cheek touching the pillow. "Did you know that…" He pauses, his throat convulsing, and it sounds audible in the silence, besides Michael's steady, even breathing from the other bedroom.

Scorpius is staring back at him, in wait of something new to learn, a beautiful and intelligent child. He has Draco's mind. He has Draco's eyes and nose and mouth and hair. He is his. All his. All he has of Michael are his wild curls and the green of his eyes, and sometimes he looks into them and imagines that they aren't Michael's, but someone else's.

Draco leans his head closer, biting the quiver out of his lips before he breathes a laden and shuddering exhale, and he whispers, "You are my star in a big black sky."

Song To Say Goodbye

Draco should have remembered that life doesn’t always turn out the way you want it to. Somewhere along the way he forgot to always be careful and was left with nothing. It was hard enough getting himself together the first time, can he do it again?

Small spoiler for Song to Say Goodbye below

Its not Drarry Endgame: he ends up with a OMC cuz Harrys a big dickhead

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Never Mess With a School Teacher

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: M 

Warnings: Violence, oh my god, the violence. Also swearing, derogatory language. Threat of violence towards kids, but no actual violence, all violence is actually centred on the adults. 

Summary: He curses himself for getting so complacent, soft, it shouldn’t be this hard to chase down a thief. The thief should never even have made it to the steps of the schoolhouse, let alone inside. Luckily for your kids, an angry school teacher is worse than a pissed off sheriff. 

Notes: Someone said they wanted angst...well, I have delivered angst and fluff, hurt and comfort in one piece. 

Archiveofourown

Generally speaking Din’s job as sheriff had been pretty quiet and tame. An easy job. Navarro did not get a lot of crime and generally speaking the only people in his cells were the few regulars at the saloon who always got a little bit too indulgent with their alcohol and then started fighting over whichever girl they’d both decided they wanted that night. He hadn’t dealt with a murder, rape or assault his whole time here. He hadn’t dealt with major crime, not even horse theft. His life had become relatively...domestic and safe, compared to his previous. He’d gone from hunting down some of the most dangerous criminals around to simply wrangling a couple of drunks on a night and the occasional robber who tried his hand at a petty crime. 

He liked to think he was a competent sheriff, that part of the reason for the quiet was that he was just that good, the truth was in a small mining town nothing much happened. So he’d never had to worry, not about Grogu or about you or about the little ones you taught or any member of town. You were as safe as you could be. Navarro was probably one of the safest places around, it made his job as sheriff a damn sight easier that’s for sure. 

“Osik! Kolar! Get over here!” Which is why he’s feeling a little more winded than he used to when he runs through the centre of town after a lousy thief waving a gun in one hand and a bag of stolen credits from the mayor’s office in the other. He can feel a stitch pulling in his side and his knees don’t feel like they used to. 

He hasn’t had to run like this in a couple months, not since moving into town and perhaps he should have been going on daily runs because he’s feeling his age all of sudden. It shouldn’t be this hard to catch up to the guy, he’s not even that fast and he runs like a donkey’s shebs, all arms flailing about and no sense of his own centre of gravity. If he could just reach him then he’d be easy to tackle to the ground. Din was at least twice his size and even with that damn cattleman revolver being waved about he’d be easy to take on. But, of course Din’s getting old and of course he’s been complacent, not been working himself as hard as he should have been. Of course he feels like he’s about to bust a lung just from running for 5 minutes. He feels older than his years all of a sudden and can’t understand how he used to chance criminals down all the time with success.

He pushes his legs even harder when he realises the direction the thief is going in, “Haar’chak!” He hasn’t sworn this much in months, but he recognises the path towards the school and it’s the middle of the day. School is in session and he wants to just grab the guy before he causes more trouble. He has images of you standing at the front of class, radiant and warm, turning to fear as the man storms in. The thought makes him try harder.

“Get you’re fucking no good ass back here! Boy, don’t make me shoot you!” He’s reaching for his gun at about the same time as the schoolhouse comes into view and Din can feel all the blood draining from his face, fear gripping his heart tighter than any lasso at the thought that you’re in there, the little ones are in there and this di’kut is about to go storming in with a goddamn gun.

“I said don’t make me shoot you!” He’s got the gun out now, his trusty pistol, not his preferred rifle, but he’d left that in the sheriff’s office in a rush after hearing yelling and a commotion he wasn’t used to. He’s never leaving it behind again he decides, this has been a wake-up call, he’s gotten lazy, complacent, too soft. This town has damn near domesticated him. He needs to keep himself in shape and his wits about him if he wants to be a decent sheriff. Maybe he’ll telegram Cara, get her to come back him up as deputy or Paz, whichever wants the quiet town life more. 

He hesitates because of his recent domestication, his increased softness of heart...because if he shoots he’ll put a bullet in your schoolhouse and he knows it could go straight through, could hit one of you inside. But, mostly because he knows how much you care about that damn schoolhouse and he can’t bring it in him to damage it knowing you’d be devastated. Paz would laugh at him if he saw him now, tell him he needed to pull his trousers up and get on with the job. He’s never been very good at that. He curses kicking a rock nearby as the thief runs straight through the schoolhouse door with you inside. 

He’s panicking, he can feel it well in his chest, clutching at his throat and he’s not sure what to do. If he storms in it’ll be a mess, little kids and you, all at risk, but if he stays outside he can’t do a damned thing. He can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling in there, probably panicking, the kids are probably scared, that’s soon confirmed by the terrified little screams he can hear. There’s a panic inside and it just swells his own until he feels like he’s choking. 

“Come out! Leave them the hell alone, boy! Do not test me!” They’re empty words because he can’t do a damned thing, but if that thief lays a hand on any of you he isn’t going to bring him in warm, he’ll be in a jail cell, cold, waiting for the coroner to come and collect him. That he’s certain of, a single hair out of place, a single bruise or mark and that man won’t be breathing for much longer. 

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

“It’s a well known fact that we’re all acted upon by a force we call gravity! Now gravity-” The door to the school slams open with a supreme force that shocks you so hard that you jump from your place at the front of the class, chalk falling from your hand in a perfect demonstration of the force you’d been discussing. The children react in an instant, jumping from their feet then all clamour towards you like a stampede of panicked animals and it is all you can do in that moment to grab the yardstick you use in mathematics and occasionally in science and hide it behind you. 

He’s wild looking, the man who storms into your school. Bulging big eyes roaming over the lot of you with a snarl, almost foaming at the mouth with aggressive energy, gun clenched tightly in one hand. He’s red in the face, huffing and puffing from running from god knows where. You can hear Din outside, he’s cursing and blinding, you can hear the panic, you can taste your own on the back of your tongue like a sour candy, like cough candy, the ones your father used to love and you used to hate so desperately. 

“Now, sir, I-”

“Shut up!” It’s in this moment you realise that you cannot deescalate this situation, this man is like a wild dog, he is ready to bite at the slightest sound or provocation and the children are your main concern.

Panic gives way to anger, that bitter resolve, that feeling of indignation at this man’s brazen act. That he felt he could come into your domain, your space, that he could threaten you and your children. That he could point a gun in their direction. It’s the gun that angers you the most, it’s not pointed at you, like any sane person would do, it’s not pointed at the one adult in the room, but at Jerome who is shaking so hard you can hear his teeth clattering together. He’s barely a boy of fourteen, not a threat in the slightest. 

You wait, wait as he takes steps closer and closer, drown out the sound of Din’s panic outside, drown out the sounds of your own children, the adrenaline making you feel like your skin is buzzing, like you’ve touched an electric circuit, but there’s no electricity in the schoolhouse at all. You’re shaking, that’s just how much energy is buzzing within you, you’re shaking like a leaf on a windy November day and you can’t physically contain it, stop it. 

When he’s mere feet from you, you lift your chin defiant and angry, mouth opening in a tirade of angry words, as you rush forward in what you’re sure would be a stupid act if you weren’t so desperate for him to ignore the children and focus on you. 

“How dare you come into my school and threaten my children!” It’s almost a scream, you’re so angry, so scared, that you don’t even think when you pull the yardstick from behind your back and swing with both hands for the hand holding the gun. It connects and for a moment he fumbles, you’re sure the gun will fall from his hands, but he catches it at the last second.

His hand comes up, “You bitch!” and clocks you across the face with the butt of his gun. One hit, hard enough for your ears to start ringing. You can feel blood drip from your lip which stings as it splits itself open, your teeth clatter together and by some miracle you stay on your feet, swaying back and forth. The children have begun to cry behind you and you can hear the sounds of roaring anger from outside. Din’s voice, clamouring louder than you’ve ever heard it. 

“You lay a hand on her and you’ll wish you never came to this town!” It’s too late for that you think, he’s already laid that hand and if Din doesn’t get to him first you’re determined to deal your own blows. 

The yardstick is ripped from your palms and you’re sure for a moment that he’ll simply throw it away, out of reach but he doesn’t. Whatever anger he is feeling boils over and the slab of wood hits you in the stomach, the ribs, the back. A hit to the face has your nose bleeding, your jaw feels like it might be broken and your only thought is ‘stay up, stay standing’. Your only relief is that the attention is on you now and not the children. 

“Nar’sheb!” You spit it out, the pronunciation is awful, but the one insult that Din had taught you tumbles from your lips, hoping to keep his attention on you, hoping the provocation gives Din some time to think, to plan. Even, if you feel like he might actually kill you, like he’s capable of it. 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” 

“I said shove it, you filthy nerfherder!” It’s enough of a push for him to grab you by the front of your blouse and pull you forward, one arm coming underneath your neck, hand gripping your jaw painfully tight, especially with how broken it already feels, no doubt his fingers are going to leave bruises, while the gun is pressed to your temple. 

The fear comes back in full force this time as you hear the children crying louder at seeing you being abused, seeing a gun to your head. But you know you have to be strong because they are your children and you have to protect them, that’s your job, it’s your duty. So you’re almost relieved when he spits at you.

“Let’s go see that sheriff of yours, huh? He seems mighty concerned for you.” It relieves you because you’re beginning to move inch by inch towards the door and you know the older kids will take the younger ones out the back door, usher them quietly out of the schoolhouse and to somewhere safe. You can breathe easy because even if you die today those children are going to be safe, you’ll have done your job. The most important one. Keeping them safe. 

He sees you first, you’re blinded by the light blinking at the midday sun, but, Din? He can see you clear and bright and he has never been so angry in all his life. Your lip is busted open, blood running down your chin, staining your white blouse, there are bruises over your jaw, your nose is leaking more red and he can see by the way you carry yourself that your ribs hurt. The thief’s dirty hands are on you, one clutching your jaw so tight that he can see the indentations his fingers make even from a distance away, the other holding that damn cattleman revolver to your head. It makes him want to beat the guy black and blue, forgoing guns, just give him his bare hands and he’ll ring the guy's neck. Just let him go absolutely feral on the man, let him tear him apart. Din clenches his hand tighter around his gun, the other tightening into a fist, he widens his stance. If it is to be a fight then that’s fine, so long as you’re not in the middle of it. 

He looks scared. That’s the first thing you think when you see Din. He looks scared and angry, his gun is pointed but you know he won’t trust himself to shoot it, his brow furrowed, wet eyes, and teeth biting into his lip hard enough to bleed. He looks raging and scared and wild. This is a side of Din you have never seen, you are so used to the calm, the quiet, gentle Din. But, this Din doesn’t scare you, it fuels your fire again, that this man would make Din feel like that, that he would make this kind man scared and angry. You can feel that rage welling up, shaking you physically. He thinks you’re scared, you can tell by the laugh and little comment ‘oh don’t be scared now’, that he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, making you shy away in disgust. It crawls over your skin in a most unpleasant way. 

“Now, Sheriff, i’m going to make you an offer that I wouldn’t refuse, not if you want this pretty little thing to come out in one piece that is.” That name angers you even more, how dare he condescend you, how dare he call you that, it’s worse than being called a bitch or a cunt or any other number of derogatory names. 

You don’t even give him the chance to make his offer. You slam the pointed heel of your boot into his foot, hard as you can, before bringing an elbow back into his stomach and using what little you know about the centre of gravity to off balance him and shift him over your head and in front of you. The gun goes flying and your hands reach for the heavy metal pail you keep in front of the school house for collecting water, thanking God that you’d decided a cast iron one would do better than tin as you heft it over your head and across his face with a ringing smash and a crunch of bones. 

You stand over him, chest heaving, “You come near my children again and I will kill you, do you hear me! I’ll show you what a pretty little thing like me can do, sir!” For good measure your swing the pail down again, the man groans and far from being disgusted with your show of violence, you feel better than you have all week at knowing the threat has been dealt with.

You look up breathing heavy, blood dripping from your lip to see the children had made it outside, watching you with wide eyes, almost as wide as Din’s, but not quite. The gun is slack in his hand and he is watching you with a heat you’ve never seen before, it makes you swallow hard.

Din’s sure he’s in love. That’s what he thinks it feels like as he watches you, your chest heaving in anger, your features twisted from their usual soft and delicate countenance. This is love, this feeling like you’ve reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in your bare hand. You are the picture of a mother bear protecting her cubs and that part of him that is deeply Mandalorian cries out for you, cries out to grab you and hold you close. You are in that moment more Mandalorian than he is, mandokarla in every sense of the word. You have the spirit of a true mandalorian, the spirit of a mother, strong, brave, prepared to do what needs to be done. Undefeated. The man beneath your feet groans and it spurs him to action. 

Pulling handcuffs from the back of his belt, Din closes the gap between himself and the thief. He’s rough as he rolls the man onto his front, pulling his arms far behind his back and locking them together. He knows he’s rougher than he needs to be, but the man’s lucky. Lucky that he can’t bring himself to hurt him more with you stood there. 

“You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet in your head right now, osi’kovid. I should kill you for what you’ve done.” He means it too, he wants to just do it, but he knows it’s not right. Not when the man is incapacitated, unable to defend himself. Not when the little ones are watching on, many of their parents having made their way through town at the sound of the disturbance, clutching at the little ones with relief and shock. 

“Then why don’t you, big bad sheriff?” Din hauls him to his feet roughly, presses his mouth close to the thief’s ear not wanting the others to hear him.

“The only thing keeping you alive right now is the woman standing in front of you. If she wasn’t here I'd tear you limb from limb. You’re lucky she’s there.” He means it too. He won’t hurt him, not like this, because he knows you wouldn’t approve, because he knows no matter how angry you are you’d never be okay with him hurting an unarmed, handcuffed man. But, god if he isn’t close to snapping. All that panic has turned into anger, anger which he focuses on the man as he roughly drags him towards the cells. 

You think you weren’t supposed to hear it, the threat, but you did and it is both scary to see him like this and a mite attractive.  Your gentle sheriff is showing a harsher side than you’ve ever seen and it should shake you to your core, make you distance yourself, but it doesn’t. Did you not just show the exact same side of you? Did you not just consider beating the man to a pulp yourself? All because you loved your children, wanted them safe. You think this anger from Din is a reflection on how much he cares for you and the children, how scared he had been and it warms something inside of you. Your chest aches with a longing that you don’t understand as you watch him roughly walk the man away. 

“Are you alright, Miss!” It’s Mr Hewitt, concerned for your welfare, but you just wave him off and make your way to the children, hand clutching at your ribs. 

“I’m perfectly alright, Mr Hewitt, don’t you worry about me!” The children, for the most part are with their parents, all of whom have congregated after commotion drew their attention and word spread quickly through town. They’re crying into their mother’s skirts and their father’s trouser legs and it breaks your heart. They should never have had to witness or experience that, it should never have happened. 

“Children!” Their heads snap up instantly, ever attentive to your teacher's voice; they watch you with focused eyes even while they hiccup and sniffle. “I think we’ve earned the rest of the day off, don’t you? Go home, rest, play and I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning!” 

Truth is you need to sit down. You can’t even begin to think about teaching right now. So sending them home seems your only option. 

Parents smile at you, wish you well, tell you to look after yourself as they escort their children home. The only little one left is Grogu who runs towards you with panicked eyes, and despite the pain you kneel on the ground in front of him. The little one wraps his arms tight around your neck before pulling back, little hands patting over your cheeks and hair, as if imitating an adult checking your injuries. It brings tears to your eye because in that moment you’re reminded of what could have happened, what could have been lost. It’s not fear for your own life that has tears falling, but fear for him, for all the little ones and their youthful innocence. 

“Cabur...cabur” It’s said to you, little hands framing your face, big brown eyes serious as he looks up at you. It isn’t a word you know, mando’a you are sure, and it’s not a word you’ve ever heard leave his lips before. A quiet child he had only recently begun to start talking and often in one or two words only. 

That’s how Din finds the two of you. You’re kneeling in the dirt, skirt stained probably beyond repair, blouse bloody, face bruised and cut. Grogu is in your lap, your arms wrapped around his little chubby body, his hands cupping your face as he says it over and over again. ‘Cabur’. Guardian. Protector. It warms him from the inside out, that his ad, his son sees you as such, that his son cares about you so much and that you care about him just the same. He has no doubt that you were prepared to die for those children and it scares him and warms him in equal measure. 

You hear his footfalls, dirt and gravel crunching under well worn boots, spurs clinking lightly as he comes to crouch next to you. Warm fingers reach out to gently graze your jaw, taking in the dark mottled bruising and deep swelling.

“What does it mean?” Wide eyes turn on him and he can’t help but smile softly at you, moustache twisting upwards at your curious nature, always so eager to learn, always wanting to engage more with the world around you. 

“Protector, guardian, cabur’ika.” You wince slightly when he presses around your nose, checking to feel if it is broken. It’s not, but it will swell and bruise along with most of your face. The blood has stood spilling from it and that reassures him that it isn't too serious. It still hurts to see you like this, to see you hurt in any way. 

“Ika?”

“Little.” He can already see your brows furrowing, lips setting into an offended scowl as you glare up at him. At the diminutive suffix, not fully understanding the nuances of mando’a yet.

“Little!”

He laughs at your offence, not because it’s funny because it does not mean what you think it means, “It’s a...a familiar term. It’s not because you’re little.” He hopes he makes sense. He doesn't call you a little protector to make fun of you or tease you, but because it shows familiarity, closeness. You are becoming part of his clan without realising it and the familiarity feels good to show. Just as when he calls Grogu, Gro’ika. 

“Oh.” The annoyance metals from your features as quickly as it came and he continues his prodding of your skin, carefully assessing your injuries. Your jaw isn’t broken, he tells you, but it is badly bruised and he tells you to talk less in class, although he gives you a look that says he understands that is unlikely to happen. A gentle finger pulls your lower lip from between your teeth, you hiss, but he’s gentle as can be when looking at the split lip. Badly split and still bleeding red over your chin and blouse. 

Din rises to his feet, offering you a hand, “Let’s get you clean up, cabur’ika”. He helps you stand, Grogu letting go and sliding from your lap to instead hold your skirt hem as the three of you walk. 

Din wraps a strong arm around your waist to help you walk, your pace is slow, careful and it takes longer than it really should to get across town to your small house. It’s not much, just 2 rooms; the main living area with your kitchen, wash basin, tub and a bedroom separated from the rest. But it is home. Cosy, he thinks, like you. It screams home, lived in, a place to live, not just rest your head. 

He eases you onto your settee, propping up pillows behind your back as he urges you to lay down. He even plumps a few in his hands like a mother hen, clucking around you as he unlaces your boots and gently pulls them off to make you more comfortable, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. He’s filling a washbowl with water from your tap, the one luxury you have, being a plumbed-in kitchen sink. 

“Din...you don’t have to do this.” He should be dealing with paperwork, probably writing a telegraph for someone from a local prison to come and collect the man currently in the jailhouse. He shouldn’t be here with you, he has better things to do. 

“Yes. I do. Someone needs to look after you, cabur’ika.” You watch him grab salt from the side mixing it in with the water, just enough to help keep your wounds clean. Watch him decide which cloth on your countertop is the best to use. He feels the fabrics, which is too abrasive, which is softest, gentlest, before deciding on one and dropping it into the washbowl. 

Grogu is sat by your fireplace watching as his buir shifts you slightly so he can sit on the edge of the settee, washbowl placed on the ground. His fingers are gentle as they rest underneath your chin and urge you to look up at him, calloused but soft on your skin, careful of any pressure that might hurt you. 

The salt water stings, but the cloth is soft and he hushes you quietly at every hiss or groan of discomfort you make. Carefully cleaning your wounds, wiping the dirt, sweat and blood from your skin. 

“It’s okay, Cyar’ika. I’m sorry….i’m sorry.” It’s more than just a sorry for the temporary pain of cleaning your wounds, it’s more than just sorry that I am causing your wounds to sting. There is a deep pain in his voice that strikes you to your core and you shift, hands wrapping around his wrist as you sit yourself up despite the pain in your ribs. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Din. Listen to me,” you tug on the wrist, pull it towards you and hold him to your chest, urge him to look you in the eye. You can feel the guilt rolling off of him in waves, “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault.”

“You wouldn’t be like this if I was better at my job...I got complacent, lazy, I should have been able to catch him before he even got near the schoolhouse! You shouldn’t have ever been put in that position, you and the little ones…” It’s the break in his voice, the tears welling in deep brown eyes that has you wrapping your arms around his head and pulling him to rest his cheek on your chest. Rubbing circles in the back of his neck, twisting dark curls between your fingers. 

“You did everything you could. You are not at fault and I will not have you blame yourself for something you had no control over. You are a good sheriff, Din. You are so good. Please don’t blame yourself for this, darling.” You scratch careful circles into his scalp with your nails, rub soothing lines over his neck and under his jaw, whisper gentle reminders that he is the best thing to happen to this town. That he provided you with a school. That he has made this town safe. That he is not at fault for this. But, you know, deep inside you that he will carry this moment with him, that he will not forget what happened and what could have happened. This guilt will weigh heavily on him, and will follow him.

“You could have been killed. The little ones could have been hurt.” He has always been a man of emotions, quiet emotions, but emotions nonetheless. You’d known from the start that he had a protective streak, that that extended especially towards children. That the mandalorian in him, his upbringing, urged him to keep them safe as much as your own duties did.

“But they weren’t. Keeping them safe is my job, Din. Don’t add it to your worries.” But, they weren’t his responsibility. When they were in your schoolhouse they were yours. The last thing you wanted was him to take that responsibility onto his shoulders when he already had so much, that guilt. It was your responsibility to protect them and while scared and shocked, none of them had a hair out of place or a scratch on them. They were okay. 

“You could have died, cabur’ika. You could have died.” 

“I know. I know,” It hits you. Like being trampled under horse hooves and the wheels of a carriage, like the yardstick to your ribs, full force and winding as you finally understand. You could have died. You could have died. 

It is your turn to cry as your breathing becomes uneven and your mind tries to make sense of the fact you nearly died today, just doing your job, just in your schoolhouse. That there is so much you have not achieved, so little you’ve seen or done and you could have lost the chance to ever do. “Din…” You’re clutching at him, fingers digging in his back as he pulls you tighter to him. 

There is a moment where he worries that you cannot breathe, that the force of your tears will choke you in his arms and so he holds you tighter, barricades you in his arms. Walls shielding you from the world. He brings a hand to the base of your neck cupping it to tilt your head up as he presses his forehead to your own. A comforting gesture, a keldabe kiss, he wants you to feel safe again. Wants to impress upon you your importance in his life even if he is not ready to say it yet.

He can feel your breath evening out with the gesture, your lungs relaxing as his presence comforts you. It pleases him to know he can calm you. He is the only thing present in that moment, not what happened, not the wild eyes of your assailant, not the fear, not the kids, not the room around you. Just him. His warm forehead pressed into yours, gentle, but firm enough to ground you. Large hand cupping the back of your neck, the other arm wrapped entirely around you to keep you close. 

It is a little movement behind your back and two small arms wrapping around your back, unable to truly wrap around you fully that bring you back into the present. 

It’s a little voice saying ‘Cabur’ into the fabric of your blouse, little hands gripping at you, trying to soothe you that makes your heart ache in an entirely different way. You pull back from Din, enough so that you can reach around you and pull Grogu into your lap, between the two of you, shielded by you both. It should scare you, how it feels like you have your entire world on your settee, how it feels like family. It should scare you what you would do for Din, for Grogu. What you would do to keep them safe, happy, healthy. Instead it warms you, to know that you’ve found somewhere to belong that isn’t just a schoolhouse and a classroom. 

“It’s okay, Ad’ika. I’m okay. I promise.” You run a hand through his dark curls, boop him on the nose to make him smile and feel a true smile creeping on your face even if it hurts. You’re not lying either. You’re okay. You will be okay. With this little child who cares for you deeply, with his father who is always there to look after you, you know you are okay and will be okay. 

“Ori'haat,” Din says to you, lifting your eyes back to him and the soft little smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “I swear. You said you wanted to learn more.”

“Or-e-haht?” You are back to your little game. The one where he tells you a new word and you try to pronounce it, but the unfamiliar words twist wrong in your mouth, coming out butchered to his amusement. He enjoys it, you know he does. It is easy to see because his eyes always twinkle with humour and his face softens, some of the harsh lines fading away. 

“Oh-ree-haht.”

“Oh-e-haht?” You always concentrate hard and it is this fact that makes your mispronunciations cute, copikla, rather than frustrating. He does not mind you making mistakes because you try earnestly to correct them and always practice the words till you have it right. He enjoys teaching you because he enjoys hearing his language from another person, enjoys the familiarity, the homeliness of it. 

“Oh-ree-haht!” This time it’s Grogu who announciates it, loud and clear with a little grin on his sweet little face as he looks between you and his buir as if waiting for praise. 

“Very good, Gro’ika,” Din ruffles the boy’s curls before turning his eyes back to you. The boy preens under the praise, little grin growing in size as he sits between the two you. How he always manages to get it right on the first try you don’t know, you’re a little envious of the boy's knack for seemingly everything. He is a quick learner in school and out of it. 

“Oh-ree-haht?”

“Jate, good.” You smile proud of your efforts and shift a little in your seat, ribs pulling and causing you to let out a pained breath. It's going to be sometime you think before you are fully back to how you were, without pain or bruises. You have yet to look in a mirror but are sure that you look terrible.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You extend the invitation, knowing you don’t want either of them to go just yet, even though Din probably has things he needs to do and it is selfish to ask him to stay when he has his duties to get on with. 

“You’re not making dinner, cyar’ika. I’ll make it.” He untangles himself from you, grabbing the washbowl to empty in your garden. The view of you with his son cuddled up to you makes his heart warm, even with the mottled bruising and cuts across your features. 

“Din…”

“I will not argue about this with you, i’m taking care of you and you will rest, cabur’ika.” His tone brooks no argument, demanding for the first time, truly, that you listen and do not fight him on this. You should be resting, not standing cooking dinner. You are in too much pain and he would sooner tie you to your bed then let you hurt yourself in an effort to be the hostess. 

With a heavy sigh, you conceded defeat. “Okay, but I’m not happy about it, Din Djarin.”

“I know.” He says with a smile.

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

Mando’a Translations:

Nar'sheb - contemptuous comment, like saying shove it.

K'olar! - get over here!

Cabur - guardian, protector 

Cabur’ika - lit. little guardian/protector, but the ika shows familiarity, making this more of a pet name, friendly term. 

Haar’chak - damn it

Shebs - butt, ass.

Di’kut - idiot.

Mandokarla - having the *right stuff*, showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mando virtue

Osi’kovid - shithead

Ori'haat - I swear

Cyar’ika - sweetheart, darling

Jate - good

Copikla - charming, cute, typically not used for women, but for animals and children. But honestly, I think the reader wouldn’t be offended like a typical mandalorian might by being called copikla. 

Ad’ika - Little one.

[s-oulpunk]

Paper Rings - Reddie

Summary: Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched on the ground.  His fingertips are grazing over the wood and Richie doesn’t have to look to know what he’s tracing.

“We were supposed to get married.” He finally glances over his shoulder, sparing Richie a quick look. “Do you remember?”

Richie nods numbly. “Yeah.  Yeah, I remember.”

TW: N/A

Read on AO3

“Eddie.” Richie swallows the lump in his throat before continuing, “What are you doing here?”

Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched on the ground.  His fingertips are grazing over the wood and Richie doesn’t have to look to know what he’s tracing.

“We were supposed to get married.” He finally glances over his shoulder, sparing Richie a quick look. “Do you remember?”

Richie nods numbly. “Yeah.  Yeah, I remember.”

For a moment it’s silent.

Eddie sits, admiring the carvings of a fourteen year old Richie Tozier.  And Richie stands, admiring the dirty and exhausted appearance of a forty year old Eddie Kaspbrak.

It’s a little disgusting.  He’s covered in blood and filth from the sewers, mud caking his skin and dirt shoved under his fingernails.  Richie can still see the puddle of blood seeping through Eddie’s jacket, where Pennywise had nicked him.  Richie hates to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t gotten him out of the way in time.  So he doesn’t think about it.

All in all, he’s in bad shape.  But it’s not like Richie’s any better off.  The only thing in the world he wants is a shower.

Well, he thinks, smiling softly at the back of Eddie’s head, maybe there’s one other thing he wants more.

Because despite all the grime and dirt, Richie still thinks Eddie’s beautiful.

“We couldn’t even get married at the time,” Eddie says suddenly. “But you were so sure.  I didn’t think we’d have a fighting chance but you were so sure.  I remember you tying that fucking string around my finger and telling me-”

“Spaghetti, as soon as the courts realize how dumb that all is and decide to legalize us, I’m marching right down to town hall and marrying your ass,” Richie quotes.  He lets out a quiet laugh.  For a moment he feels brave enough to say more.  The moment passes.  “How could I forget?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.  How could I - How could I forget this?  How could I forget you?”

Richie feels as if his heart’s been cracked in two. “It’s not your fault, Eds.  We all forgot.”

“It’s not the same,” Eddie says. “You didn’t get married.”

“Eds-”

“You proposed and then I went and married someone else.  How shitty is that?  That’s like the ultimate cheater move.”

“Eddie, what are you talking about?  You forgot everything.  How could you have known?”

Richie wants to tell him how ridiculous he’s being.  He wants to fucking nail it into his head: You’re being stupid.  None of this is your fault.  You didn’t mean to.

But all he can do is repeat the same words over and over again.

You forgot, you forgot, you forgot.

“You know I didn’t date anyone for nearly five years after I moved away,” Eddie says.  He finally stands.  Finally turns to look at Richie for good.  Unshed tears are sparkling in his eyes and Richie wants nothing more than to lurch forward and hold him till they go away.  But he doesn’t move.  He can’t. “Took three years to even think about dating someone else.  My first year of college someone was flirting with me and I told them I was seeing someone.  I didn’t think I was, I couldn’t - I couldn’t remember.  But it just felt right to say.  When I finally started going on dates again I kept comparing them to you.  I didn’t know it, but I was.  Of course I was.  The only thing I could think about was if they could make me laugh.”

“I get it,” Richie says.  And he wants to say more.  He wants to tell him he was the same.  That every date he went on was compared to Eddie.  But his throat closes up and he doesn’t say anything.

“Then Myra came along,” Eddie continues. “And she was nice, we were friends.  She was my first real friend since moving.  The first person I felt like I could really talk to.  But my mom got in my head, convinced me I was in love with her.  It all just kind of spiraled from there.”

“Are you?” Richie asks before he can stop himself. “In love with her, I mean.”

Eddie lets out a bark of laughter. “Am I in love with her?  Richie, I’m gay.  You should know that better than anyone.”

Richie shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I dunno.  I thought maybe you were bi.”

“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “I just moved and immediately tried to re-oppress all my emotions.”

Richie chuckles softly. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, really fucked me up.”

Eddie’s frown deepens. “I think I fucked everything up.  Myra’s not gonna be happy, I forced her into a fake marriage.  And you - we - it’s too late for us.”

Richie chances a step forward. “You didn’t fuck it up, Eddie.  Myra’s gonna understand.  You said you guys are friends, right?” Eddie nods, though he still looks miserable. “She won’t be mad.  As for us,” Richie swallows down the bile rising in his throat. “I would still do it.”

Eddie looks dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You would?”

A grin breaks out across Richie’s face and he rushes to close the gap between them.  He grasps Eddie’s hands in his, pulling them up to hold against his chest.  A wave of relief washes over him as soon as he does, as if he’s suddenly being reminded: Oh yeah, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course I would.”

“You’ll have to get me a new ring,” Eddie says, a face-splitting grin on his face. “I lost the string one in a storm years ago.”

“I lost mine in an old apartment,” Richie admits. “I was devastated, even though I couldn’t remember why.”

Eddie giggles. “Can’t believe you forgot your own wedding.”

“Excuse you, I did not forget,” Richie says with a faux-horrified gasp. “Your mom looked very nice during our special day, by the way-”

“Shut up!” groans Eddie. “I cannot believe I agreed to deal with this again.”

“For the rest of your life, baby,” Richie beams, and he doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s cheeks turn pink at the nickname.

“We can’t just rush off to town hall though,” Eddie says, his voice serious again. “I’ll have to call Myra about getting a divorce.”

“Gives us time to plan,” Richie says. “Believe me, I am not wasting this on a town hall wedding.  We’re gonna have the biggest, most obnoxious wedding of all time.”

Eddie laughs, the sound like music to Richie’s ears. “I don’t doubt that.”

And then Eddie’s kissing him.

It’s soft and sweet but also fast and needy, and it’s everything Richie’s been dreaming of since stepping foot in this hell of a town.  It’s exactly like he remembers, Eddie’s arms around his neck and Richie’s hands on his hips.

“I love you,” Richie blurts, lips fumbling against Eddie’s.

His heart lurches to a stop in his chest.  He hadn’t meant to say that.  It’s too early.  He can’t just say stuff like that-

“I love you too.”

Richie grins as he leans in for another kiss.  He could get used to this for forever.

-

“I can’t believe you’re gonna be on the other side of the fucking country.”

Richie collapses on his bed, face buried in the mess of blankets.

“It’ll be okay,” Eddie says, gently carding his fingers through his boyfriend’s curls. “We’ll see each other during breaks.  And we’ll write and call.”

“I know, but it’s not the same.”

“I know-”

“Your mom’s gonna miss me every night.”

“Fuck off!”

Richie cackles as Eddie shoves him off the bed.

“I changed my mind,” Eddie says. “I’m not gonna miss you.”

“Awe, c’mon Eds-”

“That is not my name.”

“I know you love it,” Richie grins as he clambers back onto the bed.

Eddie kisses him to avoid answering.

“You’re such an idiot,” he whispers. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

“Not as much as I’m gonna miss you,” Richie says.  He shuffles into a sitting position just so he can tug Eddie onto his lap. “Who am I gonna bother at school?”

“Everyone, I imagine.”

“Mhm, yeah, probably.”

Eddie kisses him softly. “You should just come to New York with me.  We could get a shitty apartment.  Maybe a dog.”

“That sounds nice,” Richie whispers. “But there’s no way we could afford it.  Besides, your mom would murder me.”

Eddie huffs, his lower lip popping out in a little pout.  It’s so cute that Richie can’t stop himself from swooping down and stealing a kiss.

“I can’t believe she’s following me all the way to New York,” Eddie groans. “Who does that?”

“People who know how cute you are, Eds,” Richie says, reaching up to pinch his cheek.

“Then why aren’t you following me?” Eddie says, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Huh?  Does my own boyfriend hate my face that much?”

Richie just laughs, taking Eddie’s face between his hands and peppering kisses wherever he can reach. “I could never hate your face, Eds.” He kisses his nose softly. “I’m gonna miss this.”

“Me too,” murmurs Eddie.  He worms his lower lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make him wince. “Rich?  Do you really think this will work?  I mean, what if one of us meets someone else?  What if we can’t make it work?  What if-”

“That won’t happen,” Richie insists, despite the fact that these same worries had plagued him during sleepless nights. “We’re gonna be alright, Eds.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  In fact-” Richie lifts Eddie off his lap, quickly scurrying to the other end of his room.  For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just shuffles through a drawer that Eddie suspects has never once been cleaned.  Then he turns around, a ball of string in one hand and scissors in the other. “In fact, I’ll make you a promise right now.”

He kneels next to the bed and snips off an end of the string.  He takes Eddie’s hand gently between his own and wraps the string around his ring finger, just holding it in place.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, will you marry me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches. “What?”

“Do you want-”

“Yes,” Eddie nods furiously. “Yeah.  Yes.  Yes.”

Richie grins and quickly sets to work tying the string around Eddie’s finger.

“This isn’t even legal,” Eddie says breathlessly, but picks up another piece of string to tie around Richie’s finger anyway. “We can’t - You know we can’t - Not really -”

“Not right now, maybe,” Richie says. “But someday we can.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” Richie says, a soft smile on his face. “Because the world can’t be blind to love forever.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” whispers Eddie. “All the slurs, all the laws.  It feels like the entire world is against us.”

“Well, Spaghetti, as soon as the courts realize how dumb that all is and decide to legalize us, I’m marching right down to town hall and marrying your ass,” Richie grins.

And Eddie grins right back at him. “I can’t wait.”

[andthelightbulbclicks]

Hey can i get Bellarke fic in a cinderella universe? Bell the prince Clarke is Cinderella ?

Dear anon who sent this in forever ago,

I hope you’re still around to read this, lol.. This is more so a modern, loosely-based Cinderella story, but it’s a beast. So I hope y’all enjoy :) [ao3]

“Oh shit.”

Which, not exactly the words Clarke wants to hear from theperson currently working on dying her hair.

“What,” Clarke says immediately, hands reaching up to touchher hair as she tries to turn around and look in the bathroom mirror. “’Ohshit,’ what?”

Raven grabs at her shoulders, keeping her in her sittingposition and unable to catch a glimpse of the apparent disaster occurring onher head. “It’s not bad,” Raven assures her as soon as she’s confident thatClarke isn’t going to make a move to turn again, “it’s just– a lot more bluethan I had anticipated.”

At that, Clarke can’t stop herself from whipping herselfaround in the kitchen chair they had dragged into their bathroom, and gettingan eyeful of – yep, a whole lot of blue.

“Holy blue,” Clarke says, staring at her reflection, eyestracing over her short hair that is most definitely far bluer than she andRaven had discussed.

Raven’s eyes meet hers in the mirror as she nods solemnly.“Holy blue,” she agrees.

“I thought we agreed that we were just doing the tips totest it out?” Clarke asks pointedly as Raven avoids her glare in the mirror.

“We did! But you chopped your hair so short and it’s solight and I may have misjudged the strength of the dye and how high it wouldseep up into your hair,” Raven defends.

At that, Clarke lets out a huff. “You said it’s temporary,right?”

“Yup,” Raven nods. “That’s why we used it, just to gauge howyour hair would react to it,” she explains as she takes one of their bathtowels to start tugging and squeezing at the blue hair, and winces when shepulls the towel away to find it dyed blue as well.

Clarke pins her with her best unimpressed look once she eyesthe towel in Raven’s hands.

“Trust me,” Raven continues, tilting her head, her ponytail swingingwith it’s perfectly dyed red tip, “when we do it for real, I’ll know to golighter and to do a smaller portion of hair so it doesn’t, uh, end up goingabove your ears.”

As she says it, Clarke finds her hands tracing over the bluethat starts to fade into blonde just above her ears. It’s a lot of blue. Far more blue than blonde, even with her hair onlybrushing her shoulders to begin with.

“My mom’s going to lose it,” Clarke tells her as she takesthe towel, trying to dab at the blue herself, and only accomplishing turningthe towel bluer. “She’s going to think I’m going through an annual rebel phase.Dropped out of school last year, excessively dye my hair this year, get tons ofpiercings next year, a giant tattoo the year after that…”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Just tell Abby I did it and all willbe forgiven.”

And well, she’s not wrong.

Clarke scrunches her nose in response, not actually havingan argument to that.

“Besides,” Raven goes on, giving up on the now-blue toweland using it to start wiping up any excess dye off the counter. “It’ll wash outin two, three days tops. And the kids are gonna love it.”

And again, Raven Reyes is never technically wrong.

—

When Clarke was thirteen, her father died.

It had been sudden, blindsiding Clarke and her mother, and throwingthem into a never-ending tailspin. Clarke was absolutely devastated, one dayhaving her father’s smiling face teasing her, the next rushing to the hospitalto say her goodbyes after a massive heart attack.

After that, she and her mom were never the same. Theysurvived, made it through that first awful year after the heart attack, andeven repaired their relationship as best as a grieving widow and a shattered andconfused fourteen-year-old could. They’d make it, they’d just never have her dadthere again to balance them out the way they needed.

When Clarke was fifteen, Abby introduced Marcus Kane to her.

This, she knew was coming.

She knew her mom had been going on dates, knew that it wasall very tentative, and knew that this was important. It’d been two years, andthough the spiteful side of her wanted to hate her mom for moving on and hateMarcus for even existing, she was willing to grudgingly acknowledge thatwouldn’t be fair. She couldn’t expect her mom to never fall in love withsomeone again, and she couldn’t blame Marcus for making her mom happy and beingthat someone.

They married the following year, and Clarke was happy for them. She briefly imaginedMarcus being some sort of evil-step-father, but she couldn’t get the image tostick. She liked Marcus and his awkward attempts at assuring Clarke that hewasn’t trying to replace her father. And she liked the way he looked at her momlike she hung the moon.

When Clarke was sixteen, they told her that they wanted tostart fostering.

On top of having been married to a very successful engineerfor fifteen years, Abby came from a wealthy family. Marcus had his own fortune,often donating to Arkadia’s local history museum. They had the money, they hadthe room, and all they needed was for Clarke to be okay with having one or twokids around the house for the year or so she’d still be living at home beforeshe left for college.

And Clarke was definitely all for it.

Which is how Octavia Blake and John Murphy came to live withthem.

John, or well, Murphy, was fourteen. He’d been in the systemfor four years, after his mother had died from alcohol poisoning. Four fosterhomes, two counts of theft, and one final warning of juvie later, Murphy cameto live with them with a smirk that told Clarke he didn’t plan on being therelong.

Octavia was thirteen. Her mother had died the year before,and she’d been in a sort of foster-care-limbo since then because hereighteen-year-old brother was trying to get custody of her. The courts hadruled against the brother, and Octavia came to live with them, anger coursingthrough every inch of her small form.

At first, it was rough. Really rough.

Clarke knew she could never truly understand what they hadgone through, what they were goingthrough, but she had wanted to try and make them feel at home, to let themfeel like they had a home. Abby andMarcus must have thought Clarke could be an outlet for them, someone aroundtheir age that they could talk to. She thought she could be that person too.

They didn’t.

They went to school, Murphy scowled at everything andOctavia didn’t speak, and they continued to pretend that Clarke didn’t exist,keeping to their rooms as much as they could.

And on top of all of that, there was Bellamy Blake.

Marcus and Abby never limited his access to Octavia once shecame to live with them. Bellamy was welcome any time he wanted to see hissister. He was invited for dinner whenever he came by, which was often, and heaccepted every time, if only to spend some more time with Octavia. He’d stayfor dinner, help Octavia with any homework she had to do, and then thank hermom and step-dad before leaving to go back to the house his mom had left to himor to one of his many jobs.

He seemed to like Marcus and Abby well enough, was willingto be kind to them even if Clarke could see the tension he held the entire timehe was there.

But Clarke? He hatedher.

The first time he came to see Octavia, she tried to talk tohim as he waited for Abby to get Octavia. She wanted to see if he had anysuggestions on how to get through to Octavia, even Murphy, and show them thatshe was on their side.

He’d looked at her with an amused tilt of his head and aroll of his eyes. “Try getting off your fucking high-horse and acknowledge thefact they don’t want you on their side, Princess.”

Octavia had burst through the kitchen door and into his armsright after, effectively ending the conversation before it could even start.

Clarke had been taken aback, felt the blood rush to her faceeven as she fought the urge to spit a retort back at him.

But her mom popped her head in the doorway and smiled at thesight of the two siblings together, and Clarke couldn’t do it. Octavia had beensmiling for the first time since she came to live with them, and Clarkecouldn’t, wouldn’t take that away.

She got why Bellamy hated her. She was the daughter ofprivileged people who were able to give his sister things he couldn’t. Hewasn’t able to hate Abby or Marcus, but he could hate Clarke and create theimage of her he wanted in order to justify it.

Clarke Griffin, the “princess” who was too self-entitled tounderstand anything, too good for the likes of Octavia or Murphy. Or him.

And she’d let him, if it meant he wouldn’t take it out onanyone else.

—

Clarke opens the door to her parent’s house, only to bewelcomed by the sound of rock music and something that smells absolutelyincredible coming from the kitchen.

She shakes her head fondly, making her way straight towardsthere and walking in to find Octavia sitting on top of the kitchen counter,feet swinging in front of her, as Murphy stands in front of the stovetop,stirring something sizzling in a pan.

She takes the moment before they notice her to just watchthem. The calm and ease they have, how much they clearly belong here after almost five years.

It’s only a second, because then Octavia’s turning towardsher and launching herself off of the counter to get to her. “Clarke!” Sheexclaims, before barreling into Clarke’s arms. She pulls away with a jolt aftersqueezing Clarke tight. “Holy shit, what did you do to your hair?” She asks asshe tugs on the blue.

“Raven got a little excited with the dye, it should come outin a few washes though.”

Murphy, ever the focused one on his cooking, only turns atthe mentions of her hair. His critical eye glances over the bright blue locksbefore smirking at her. “You seriously want to give Abby a stroke, don’t you,”he jokes, turning back to his food.

Octavia releases her hair just so Clarke can go flick Murphy’sear in retaliation. “No,” she starts,poking him wherever she has access to until he relents and spoons a bite ofwhatever he is cooking to test taste.

Stir-fry. Her favorite.

She makes a show of contemplating the flavors as Murphywaits for her approval, which as always, she gives full heartedly. “It’sdelicious,” she tells him while bumping him in the shoulder. “Thanks for makingit.” She pulls him into a hug before he can turn back to his work and ignoreher praise.

He accepts it with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Welcomehome Clarke.”

“Thanks,” she says as she hops up on the counter whereOctavia had been when she walked in. “Now that you’re going to be this big,fancy chef going to a big, fancy cooking school, I definitely want one of thosecakes that gets set on fire. And the ice-cream you put in a deep fryer.”

Murphy heaves a dramatic sigh as he continues stirring theirdinner. “You’ve had deep-friedice-cream before, and Baked Alaska is practically an ice cream cake.”

“But you’ve nevermade it for us, which means we’ve never had the best,” Octavia chimes in,joining Clarke up on the counter. Out of the three of them, they had discoveredthat Murphy was the only one who could cook something that was edible. But hewas ­really good at it, so hebasically had the skills of three people anyways, which was fine with them.

Murphy snorts in place of letting the girls compliment him.

“So,” Octavia starts, turning her attention to Clarke.“Welcome home. You get moved in with Raven okay?”

Clarke nods. “Everything’s still in boxes, but when Ravensaw I cut my hair, she wanted to test out dying the tips. She’s on acolored-hair kick.”

Octavia tilts her head to assess it. “I do like the shorthair,” she prods with her change in tone, asking a question without saying it.

Clarke shrugs her shoulders. “Just wanted to start fresh.Moving back here, getting ready for the exhibit,” she trails off. “Everything’schanging, so why not my hair? Raven thinks the kids at the museum will like it.”

“Oh they definitely will,” Octavia agrees. “They’re going tothink you’re the coolest artist yet, and I’m saying that even though myboyfriend is one of the other artists.”

Clarke sighs, looking between the two of them. “Murphy’stransferring out to go to a culinary institute, you’re graduating from high school in a few weeks… when the hell did wegrow up?”

“Who says any of you are grown up?” Abby calls from thedoorway, fondly looking at her three kids and making her presence known, Marcuscoming in right behind her.

Clarke hops off the counter instantly, going to hug them bothin place of any of them having to respond.

“Welcome home, honey,” Abby says in her ear, before shestretches her arms out to get a good look at Clarke. “Now,” she pauses, “whatis with the hair.”

She hears her siblings simultaneously snort behind her.

—

Three months after Octavia and Murphy came, Clarke’s watchwent missing.

Her dad’s watchwent missing, Clarke’s most prized possession.

She looked everywhere for it. Sometimes she wore it, whenshe felt like she needed to be close to her father, but often, it was left inher room. She searched under dressers, in dressers, under her bed, and in everybag she had ever used.

She didn’t want to think it, didn’t even want the thought tocross her mind. But the more she looked, the more she was sure that the watchwasn’t there.

Someone had taken it.

She knocked on Murphy’s door, knowing he was inside. When hedidn’t answer, she opened it to find him reading on his bed.

He jumped in surprise at seeing her, closing the bookquickly and placing it behind him. “Uh, do you mind?” He said, tone clearlyaggravated.

“Yeah,” Clarke responded, “I actually do.” She steppedfurther into the room, making it clear she wasn’t leaving. “Look, I get thatyou don’t like me, and that’s fine, but it’s not okay to just go in my room andtake whatever you want.”

Murphy’s nostrils flared at her accusation. “I don’t knowwhat the hell you’re talking about.”

Clarke crossed her arms across her chest. “The watch. It’smy dad’s,” she went on. “Please just give it back.”

At that, Murphy stood to get off his bed and walked towardsher. “I didn’t take your damn watch Clarke,” he told her angrily. “I get youthink I’m stealing things left and right from your perfect house–”

“That’s not–,” Clarke tried to defend, but Murphy barreledon.

“But I’m not stupid!I know how this works, okay? The moment I fuck up, I get sent back. Do youreally think I don’t get that if I go back again, I’m probably going to bestuck there until I’m fucking eighteen?”He seethed, nostrils flaring with an anger Clarke couldn’t begin to imagine.

“I–,” she started, trying to find something, anything tosay. But it’d been three months since he got here, and the only thing she knewabout him was what was on paper.

She judged him, and she was furious with herself for doingit.

“Now who do you think would take something so obvious in the hopes that she couldbe sent back? So that she could be with her brother?” Murphy asked, taking astep away from Clarke to sit back on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke told him, guilt turning her stomach intoknots.

Murphy rolled his eyes, not looking at Clarke. Then he gotup, brushing past her to get to the door. “I’ll get your fucking watch back,and then you leave me the fuck alone.”

He headed down the hall to Octavia’s door.

Clarke followed, and watched as he knocked on the door andwaited, refusing to look at Clarke, but also not barging in like she had done.

The door creaked open after a minute or so, Octavia peeringout and glaring at him. “Cut the shit out and give Clarke her watch back,” hesaid, pushing the door open wider as he said it.

Octavia saw Clarke behind him, and her glare intensified,but she didn’t deny it. She turned back into her room, coming back a momentlater with Clarke’s watch in hand. Clarke reached out for it, Octavia refusingto meet her eyes.

“Did you tell your parents? Am I going back?” Clarke heard thenote of hope in her voice.

Clarke watched as Murphy shook his head, frustrated. “Thecourts decided that your brother wouldn’t be able to take care of you, Octavia.You do shit like this, you get sent back and then go to a different home. Hereyou can see Bellamy whenever you want, don’t be dumb.”

Clarke’s heart hurt with the acceptance she heard inMurphy’s voice, the pain she saw in Octavia’s eyes.

“We want you,” she heard herself saying, meeting both oftheir eyes when they looked back at her. “My mom and Marcus? Me? We want youboth to feel like you have a place you can call home, a place where you feel safe.”

“I have a home,”Octavia spit out.

“You’re right,” Clarke continued. “But now you have two. Iget that I’m never going to understand what you guys have gone through, but youcan talk to me. This can be your home too. There’s nothing you can do to makemy mom and Marcus send you back, including taking my watch.”

She looked to both of them, prayed they could see howserious she was, that she’d never uproot them over an object, no matter itsimportance.

“Whatever you say,” Murphy said after a moment, before headingback to his room, but purposely leaving his door open. Octavia watched him go,before turning to Clarke.

“Fine,” she responded, and then headed back into her room, herdoor staying open as well.

Clarke looked down at the watch in her hands, putting it inher pocket and releasing a breath. “Alright.”

Things were rough, but they were going to get better.

But Clarke still had to speak with Bellamy.

She hadn’t talked to him since that first time he hadsnapped at her with his harsh words. He visited Octavia all of the time, andAbby and Marcus spoke very highly of him, but he seemed to take the routeOctavia and Murphy had, and just ignore Clarke’s existence.

So when he rang the doorbell at the usual time one day,right after he got off from work, it was Clarke who answered.

The patronizing look she got from him was enough for her tomatch it with a glare. “Princess,” he said with a lift of his chin, walkingpast her into the house.

“Octavia thinks that if she gets put back into the system,she’ll be able to come live with you,” she informed him, getting right to thepoint.

Clarke watched the tension racket up his back at her words,and her gut twisted at realizing how less tense he’d become when coming over.

Bellamy was getting used to the situation. He came wheneverhe could, either to hang out with Octavia, even Murphy, or take Octavia for acouple of hours to spend some time together. And the agitation she felt comingfrom him at her words told her she had unsettled whatever calm he had obtainedthrough that routine.

He turned slowly towards her, acknowledging her in a way henever had. “And it’s my fault, right?” He sneered, taking a step toward her. “Ishould just stop seeing my sister all together?”

“Of course not,” Clarke answered immediately, trying to takehis anger in stride. “I just want you to be aware, because I don’t want hergoing and doing something that she can’t come back from.”

At that, Bellamy scoffed, and Clarke stepped forward,exasperated.

“Look, you can think whatever you want, but I care about herand Murphy and what happens to them. And we both know Octavia is more willingto listen to you than anyone else. Please just talk to her.”

Clarke watched as Bellamy ran a hand through his hair,turning away for a moment, before turning back towards her. “I’ll talk to her,”he finally answered.

She let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

But that only pulled a bitter laugh out of him.

“Just mind your own business next time, and you won’t haveto stress yourself out so much, Princess.”

She gaped at him, trying to ignore the sting of his wordsand focusing on the tension in his jaw, the look that was always directed ather – amused, condescending, and completely uninterested in anything she had tosay.

It was then she truly realized, no matter what she did, whatshe said, he was never going to give her a chance.

—

“Alright! Everyone make sure you don’t forget your capes andcrowns!” Clarke calls as she sees the clock on the wall hit eight o’clock. “Andmake sure you grab your pictures off of the drying rack on your way out!T-shirts are still wet, so you’ll get them the next time you’re here!” She addsas the group of kids start bunching together, trying to grab all of theirthings and head out into the main lobby of the museum where parents are waitingfor them.

She wipes her hands on her paint-stained smock, only gettinghalf of the color off of her hands before reaching up to adjust her own crownon her head, her blue nub of a ponytail popping out wildly from the top.

Following the last of the kids out the room, she speaks witha few of the parents while waiting for everyone to be picked up. Once everyone’sgone, heading out of the museum and showing off all they have done over thepast few hours, Clarke heads back in to clean up.

She unties her smock and tosses it to the side, noticingimmediately that she already has additional stains on the Ark U t-shirt Murphyhad gotten her for Christmas last year. She shouldn’t be surprised, themajority of her wardrobe is covered in paint at this point.

She starts with picking up the lingering paintbrushes, onlyto drop them all in a clatter when a voice speaks up from behind her.

“Wow, it looks like a rainbow threw up in here.”

The comment itself, doesn’t do much to startle her.Honestly, it does look exactly like that, with everyone’s t-shirts they had tie-dyedat the beginning of class hanging from string Clarke had draped from theceiling, a colorful cape or two lingering on abandoned chairs as well.

It’s the person who says it that has her raising herdefenses before she can even turn around.

She turns to find Bellamy leaning against the door of themuseum’s activity room, looking relaxed in a way she’s never seen him. And he’swearing a security uniform.

He smirks at her – in a way she’s never seen before either,almost fond – when she continues tojust stand there, waiting for a biting remark to come. “Do you need some help?”

Clarke continues to just stare at him, completelydumbstruck. “I– what?” She asks when she realizes this time he’s waiting forher to respond, and she’s taking way too long, trying to figure out what thehell is going on.

But Bellamy doesn’t look at her in anger, or frustration, ora condescending way. He just repeats his question, if not while looking alittle unsettled himself.

“Do you want some help cleaning up? I’ve got time, securityhere is pretty digital at this point, so if something happens, the other guy oncamera duty will give me a heads up.”

“Uh,” Clarke starts, still thrown, “sure, I could use thehelp.” She can’t help but eye him warily as he leaves his spot by the door tostart grabbing the paint palettes from the tables and bringing them to the sinkto wash them off. She continues watching him from behind as she picks up thescattered brushes she had dropped.

“So,” he calls from over his shoulder, “is this a newprogram starting up for the summer?”

She takes her time placing the brushes back where theybelong before answering, trying to figure out his angle on all of this. “Kindof,” she hedges, “it’s a weekly program where local artists come in to workwith the kids using different art mediums. It’s my first time doing it, and Idefinitely over planned.” She feels his eyes follow hers to where the t-shirtsare hanging. “Whoever’s in next week can pass back their disguises.”

“Disguises?” He asks, turning to fully look at her. Shecan’t get over how open, how curious he’s being. Is this where they’re at? Afterthree years of not seeing each other, not speaking, they can be civil to eachother?

“Each artist picks their own theme, or medium, orsomething,” she explains. He looks at her expectantly, and she can’t get overall of these parts of him she’s never seen before. “Mine was ‘badass superheroes with a royal twist,’ but the badass part was just kind of implied,because of, you know, kids being twelve and under.”

He laughs, bright, and Clarke can feel the set of hershoulders start to relax.

“Okay, explain to me what ‘badass super heroes with a royaltwist’ entails,” he says while finishing the palettes and moving on to wipingthe tables down.

And she does.

She tells him how she’s not a fan of the whole ‘girls areprincesses and boys are superheroes’ thing, how she wanted to give them both,blend them together. Girls can be superheroes and boys can princesses. They canbe both.

“Whatever the hell they want,” Bellamy says, which draws asmile from her.

“Exactly,” she continues excitedly. “So not surprisingly,since they had the choice for once, a lot of them chose both. I wanted to paintmasks on their faces like mine,” she adds while gesturing to the navy bluestrip of glitter paint that surrounds her eyes like an eye mask, “but again, Igot way in over my head with too much stuff and had to ax it. Maybe next time.”

By this point, the room is as clean as it’s going to get,and they’ve settled into two of the chairs at one of the tables as Bellamylistens to her.

It can’t be this easy. After never exchanging a kind word,barely speaking, always fighting, it can’t be this easy to start over with him.

And it turns out, it isn’t.

“So Princess,” he hesitantly reaches up to toy with the crownstill settled on her head, and Clarke’s blood runs cold.

Princess.

“Are you a full-time artist, or do you go to Ark U?” Heasks, gesturing to her shirt with the hand that was just playing with her crown.

Clarke’s mind remains absolutely blank for a solid tenseconds before everything settles into place, and during that time, Bellamycontinues looking at her in that way she’s never, ever seen.

The blue hair, the crown covering her little bit of blondehair, the mask painted on her face, the paint covering her arms and clothing,the fact that they haven’t spoken in three years. That they really never spoketo begin with.

He doesn’t recognizeme.

“Um, no,” she begins, trying to process everything that’shappened in the past half hour or so in a different light. He doesn’t know who I am, runs on repeat in her head. “I don’t goto school,” she settles on. It’s been so nice talking to him, and she doesn’twant to ruin it. “I wouldn’t say I’m a full-time artist or anything, but I’mhoping I get there one day.”

She doesn’t notice she was staring at her hands clenchedtogether until she feels Bellamy lean in closer, giving her a reassuring smileunder the curls falling over his eyes. “I bet you’re awesome,” he tells herwith a confidence she sometimes feels she doesn’t even have in herself.

Clarke’s not sure how her heart can expand and her stomachcan twist simultaneously. But it does. “What about you?” She asks, attemptingto steer the conversation away from her.

“I’m at Ark U,” he starts. Octavia told me, she wants to say. “I’m working towards being ahistory teacher eventually. I just finished this semester, and I hopefully havetwo more to go and then I’ll be done. I work here during the summers andbreaks. My– uh, well, it’s complicated. But I know someone who put in a goodword for me here when I started school a few years ago, and the museum’s beenreally good with letting me come back.”

It’s a lot to hear at once. A lot to take in.

She knew he had started school the semester after she leftfor college, but of course he’d still have to work.

What surprises her more than anything is that he let Marcushelp him.

It’s a lot of information, but she doesn’t want him to know that.“You like history?” She chooses to ask, because who would have thought. BellamyBlake – history buff.

He ducks his head, like he’s embarrassed, before lookingback up at her with a smile that’s pure happiness. “Being able to work in ahistory museum is almost my dream job, minus the fact that I’m security insteadof a tour guide,” he admits, cheeks flushing.

Clarke’s having a hard time accepting everything that ishappening right now as anything more than a dream. This can’t really behappening right now. She can’t be so charmed with a man who has never given herthe time of day.

But that’s the thing. For the first time, unknowingly ornot, Bellamy is giving her a chance.

So she takes it.

“Well, I think we should take a tour of the museum then.It’s closing up in,” she glances at the clock, “five minutes. I bet you knowall the secret passages and hidden exhibits that only come to life at nightwhen the museum closes.”

He tries to hide is smile, and absolutely fails. “YeahPrincess?”

And that’s the other thing.

She’s never heard that word, directed at her, coming fromhim, with such fondness. How easily she could get used to hearing it like thatall the time. She doesn’t think she’d mind the nickname then.

She watches him as he stands and reaches out for her hand.“Then let’s get going, your night at the museum awaits,” he jokes.

Taking his hand, she gets pulled out of her seat. Grabbingher bag, she gets pulled into a private tour with Bellamy Blake.

—

“Who’s the kid following my sister around like a lostpuppy?”

Clarke took her time to grab a soda from the cooler she’dbeen digging through before turning to face him. “Bellamy.”

“Princess,” he smirked.

She searched for Octavia in the group of kids in the pool,finding the focus of Bellamy’s attention immediately. “That’s Ilian, a friendof Octavia’s.” She watched as Octavia laughed freely, splashing Wells and Ravenin the pool as Ilian joined in and soaked Octavia with a splash of his ownarms.

Bellamy scoffed. “Friend,right. There a reason you invited a kid three years younger than you to yourgraduation party?” You’re here, you’retwo years older, she wanted to say, but she knew he was only here becauseMarcus had insisted that he stop by and Miller was here with Monty.

Clarke ignored the bait, looking at him with an even gaze asBellamy continued to glare at Ilian. It’s as if he’s hoping Ilian would somehowfeel it from across the pool where Bellamy and Clarke were standing by thesnack area Marcus and her mom had set up out back for the kids while the adultsmingled in the house.

“I invited Jasper and Monty,” she said pointedly, gesturingto where Monty and Miller were floating in tubes as they watched Jasper bellyflop into the pool. “But they’re only a year younger, so I suppose that doesn’tcount.”

The glare directed at Ilian switched to her instantly.“That’s different, and we both know it.”

Clarke couldn’t help the roll of her eyes, even if shewanted to. “They’re fourteen, Bellamy, what could they possibly get up to witha house full of adults and you refusing to look away from them for more thantwo seconds. She’s having fun, let her.”

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because she couldfeel the tension radiate off of him almost instantly. “It figures you’dencourage it, what do you care if he’s a hormonal teenage boy who’ll be on tothe next pretty girl he sees by tomorrow.”

“Excuse me?”Clarke crossed her arms in front of her, gearing up for the apparent fight theywere going to have in the middle of her party. “Ilian is a nice kid. He andOctavia like to hang out, and it hasn’t been an issue. Stop making it soundlike it’s something terrible.”

“So this has been something that’s been going on? And no onethought to mention it to me?” His jaw locked, vein popping on one side. “God,you’re such an enabler.”

She had no time to appreciate the fact that this was thelongest conversation they had ever had. Not when his words were becoming moreand more heated and he was blaming her for seemingly nothing.

“An enabler?Seriously?”

“You say you care about her and then you let her get awaywith anything that doesn’t affect you,” he accused, anger rising by the second.

“She didn’t do anything! Theydidn’t do anything! Octavia asked if he could come and I told her yes. It’sa safe environment and there’s enough people here for it to be a group settingwhere she could feel comfortable. I’m not an idiot, I knew what I was doing.” Clarketried not to yell, not to shove him until he gets a grip, but he was beingridiculously judgmental, even for him. She was used to being the target of hisanger, but he’s mad enough that apparently anyone’s fair game.

“You still don’t get it–,” he started, but Clarke cut himoff.

“Get what? That you’re a judgmental ass? Believe me, I’veknown that since we met,” she spit out, frustrated with how he was getting toher. She could see that they were starting to gather the attention of everyoneby the pool.

“You’re not her family, Clarke!” He yelled abruptly, haltinganything that she was going to say next. “You’re not her family,” he repeated,seething, “you’re not her sister, you have no say on what is good for her, haveno clue what is good for her.”

The fight went out of her instantly, replaced by a suddenhurt she didn’t think Bellamy could inflict. She saw Bellamy’s eyes widen,thought for a second he’d apologize for his cruel words.

Instead he just cut deeper, eyes hardening again. “You go tocollege, and you’ll forget all about her and Murphy in no time.”

She latched onto the last remnants of her anger, enough forher to shove him, enough for him to take a step back. “You’re an asshole, Bellamy. You have a chance togo to school now, instead of running yourself into the ground with workinghowever many different jobs–”

“I’m not interested in–”

“Like hell you’re not interested!” She shouted, noting theircaptive audience in the pool. “Octavia told me how you were supposed to go tocollege before everything happened. How you changed your mind to take care ofher. But she’s taken care of, start taking care of your goddamn self.”

For once, he was speechless.

So she powered on, ignoring the eyes of everyone frozenaround them.

“You have a chance to get the education you want. Go far,stay close, I don’t care. Ark U is right here, you’d be able to see Octaviaanytime like you do now,” she told him, the last of her anger dissipating.

He stood in front of her, continuing to not say anything.She watched him as he turned to see everyone else break from their stares andstumble to make it look like they hadn’t heard the entire thing.

They both watched Octavia storm out of the pool straighttowards them.

And then, without a word, he turned away and started walkingtoward the front of the house, undoubtedly to his car. Octavia followed afterhim, wrapping a towel around herself and yelling at him as she trailed behindhim.

Clarke watched the Blakes as they disappeared to the frontof the house, feeling her eyes burn, but refusing to let herself cry overanything that came out of Bellamy’s mouth.

She felt someone come up from behind her to stand to herright. “Graduation and college are touchy subjects for him,” Miller said, eyesstaying on the spot where Octavia and Bellamy had disappeared to. “He was onedge since he got here.”

Clarke’s gaze stayed on the same spot. “That’s no excuse.”She hated that her voice wobbled, ever so slightly.

“It’s not,” Miller agreed, “but I hope you understand.”

Clarke nodded sharply once. “I understand that no matterwhat I do, Bellamy’s opinion of me is never going to change.”

She ignored Miller’s sigh in favor of popping her soda canopen and heading towards her friends.

She ignored the fact that Bellamy had actually called her byher real name for the first time since they met.

—

They wander through the museum for hours.

He tells her everything he knows about each exhibit as theyhead from room to room, and Clarke finds herself completely enthralled with hisstories. Bellamy’s animated when he talks, hands flying out as he tells her allabout the Roman Empire after making their way through its exhibit, eyesgleaming with excitement when she asks him questions.

It’s something she never could have imagined experiencing –Bellamy smiling at her, wanting to hear what she has to say about this paintingor that statue – but she is.

He asks about her own art when they make it back to the mainlobby.

“I’m guessing that you like to paint, since you had the kidswork with it,” he eyes her arms, making her cheeks warm, “and well, you’recovered in it.”

“I sketch a lot too.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy smiles, pleased. “What do you draw?” Clarkehesitates for a second, and he catches it. “You don’t have to share if youdon’t want to,” he adds.

“No, it’s not that,” Clarke explains while making her wayover to one of the cushioned benches on the outer edge of the lobby. Hefollows. “It’s just that I draw a lot of different things. People, places,whatever gives me inspiration. I sketch and paint, but the topic is alwaysdifferent.”

“Can I see?” His eyes hold nothing but pure curiosity asthey sit down on the bench.

No, is the simpleanswer. Her main sketch book has drawings of everything she sees on aday-to-day basis. And that includes drawings of Octavia, Murphy, Monty andMiller, her mom and Marcus, Raven and Wells. It’d give her away in a heartbeat.

But she could show him something else.

She reaches into her bag, bypassing her large sketchbook infavor of the thinner one right next to it. “Okay,” she places the book inbetween them on the bench, so that when she opens it, half is balanced on herleg and half is balanced on his, “these are just doodles really. But, um,they’re concept art for a story I can’t get out of my head. I’m thinking oftrying to make it a comic eventually.”

“What’s the idea?” He asks, already beginning to flipthrough the pages.

“A girl who’s both. Who says she can’t be a princess whokicks ass and saves the world?”

Bellamy smiles at her. “Fight those gender norms, right?”

“Yup.” She takes a chance and bumps his shoulder with hers.“It’s a really rough plan right now, but I brought it to show the kids, so theyknew where I was pulling our activities from.”

She watches as he traces his finger over the crown she drewat the bottom of the page. On every page. “Is this your signature?”

Clarke glances back at him, before looking down at thecrown, her crown. “Yeah, it just stuck with me when I drew it one day.” Aftershe dropped out of school, after the initial blowout with her mom because ofit, she drew anything that came to mind, and the crown just wouldn’t leave her.

Bellamy looks back to her, drawing her attention to him.“You really are a princess,” he teases. “A princess without a name,” he addsafter a moment, the question clear in his tone.

And just as Clarke feels the panic set in deciding whethershe should tell him who she is or not, her phone goes off in her bag, blaringthe ringtone Octavia had assigned herself ages ago.

It’s enough to rattle her into standing up, if only soBellamy won’t see Octavia’s picture pop up on her screen. “I’m sorry, I have totake this,” she tells him, before bolting to the other side of the lobby.“Hello?”

“Clarkey!” Octavia yells from the other end. Whether shemeans to be yelling or not is another question entirely.

Clarke sighs, exasperation setting in immediately. “Hey,where are you?” Octavia only drinks when she’s with her or Murphy, or whenshe’s at Jasper’s.

“Monty and Jasper are hosting a pre-graduation party,” sheconfirms, speech only slightly slurred. “But I’m ready to leave.”

“How did you get there?”

“Murphy dropped me off, but he’s out with Emori now.Bellamy’s working tonight, and I don’t want to get a lecture from him anyways.”Clarke can’t help her eyes falling on Bellamy when Octavia mentions him, buthe’s still looking at her book.

She checks the time on her phone. “Alright, I’ll be there bymidnight,” she tells her, walking towards the museum’s entrance.

“And not a minute later!” Octavia exclaims just as Clarkelocks her phone.

“I have to head out,” Clarke calls to Bellamy from theentrance, praying he doesn’t get up. He does, of course, making his way towardsher.

When he makes it over to her, she can see the worry clear onhis face. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, it’s just my–,” she stumbles over the word‘sister,’ knowing it’s his sister too. And how would she even begin to explainthat? “It’s my sister, she needs to be picked up from a friend’s house.”

“You have a sister?”

She winces, hopes he misses it. Of course he’d focus onthat, his sister is his entire life.

“I do,” she says, immediately changing the subject. “I had areally great time,” she steps toward the entrance, pushing the gigantic dooropen with a shove, “thanks for the tour, and the help cleaning up. But I reallyhave to go, I’m sorry.”

Clarke can feel herself getting more and more agitated,feeling her real world start to smother the wonderful, almost magical, timeshe’s had with him over the past few hours, and trying to get out before everythingblows up in her face.

Miraculously, Bellamy stays where he is, but it’s clear hedoesn’t want her to leave just yet. “Hey, wait,” he hesitates just on the otherside of the threshold, seeming to think something over. “Can I at least getyour name?”

She stares at him, just as the door starts to slowly closebetween them, to see the question in his eyes, the confusion, the plea. All ofit mixed what she thinks might be hope.

She wants to, god does she want to tell him the truth.

It’s me, Clarke.

But that hope would turn to disdain in a heartbeat, she’ssure of it.

Smiling at him with a regret she can feel down to her toes,she shakes her head before running down the stairs.

He lets her go, and their little fairytale bubbleeffectively bursts.

—

Clarke was sitting on the edge of the pool, feet dangling inthe water, when Octavia plopped herself down next to her.

Her friends were still fooling around on the other side ofthe pool, leaving Clarke alone when she said she just needed a moment alone.She felt drained, and kind of just wanted the party to end.

“Bellamy was out of line, and he knows it,” Octavia said asthey both watched their feet make waves in the water. “He promised me he’d benice.”

At that, Clarke barked out a laugh. “Octavia, your brotherhates me. It’d probably kill him to be nice to me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” she told Clarke, equal partssurprised and earnest, turning to look at her. “He just– he has a hard timeaccepting help, so all the things Marcus and Abby do for me are like more andmore things he will owe them for.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “They do everything they do becausethey love you, those aren’t things they expect repayment for. And that hasnothing to do with me.”

“You probably have done the most for me, actually,” Octavialaughed. “You pushed and pushed until Murphy and I let you in. You watch outfor us, and you always listen when I need to talk.” She reached out, takingClarke’s hand. “You’re my sister, Clarke.”

Clarke felt her heart squeeze, listening to Octavia. She hadhoped that she and Murphy would see themselves as part of their family one day,but she wasn’t sure it would ever happen. Her sister.

“I’m going to miss you when you leave in the fall, andMurphy will too, whether he says it or not,” Octavia admitted. “And Bell knew that,so it probably was a factor too. He’s spent his whole life looking after me,and now here I am, with people who care about me that aren’t just him. I thinkhe worries he’ll be left behind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clarke argued, squeezing her hand.“He’s so important to you. Mom and Marcus think the world of him in partbecause of how much he cares about you.”

Octavia smiled, almost a little sad. “I know that. I thinkhe just doesn’t know how to stop worrying.”

Clarke could see the way the conversation affected Octavia, anddidn’t want her day to end on a bad note too. So she bumped her shoulder withhers, choosing to focus on something else, for both of them. “Enough about yourbrother. You and Ilian look like you’re getting along well,” she teased.

The blush that flooded Octavia’s cheeks told Clarkeeverything she needed to know, even without Octavia stuttering away excuseswhile Clarke smirked knowingly.

—

A week after the museum, Clarke finds herself in her parents’kitchen again, sketching the scene in front of her – Murphy teaching Emori howto bake cookies from scratch.

“John, we could have been done already if you just let meput a pack of the pre-made dough in the oven,” Emori complains, not for thefirst time, as Murphy starts adding morsels to the dough she is currentlymixing.

“Pre-made dough,”Murphy scoffs, and Clarke can’t help her smile as she focuses on her drawing.The two of them look so domestic, even with them constantly throwing quips ateach other. They’re cute, and Clarkenever thought she’d use that term to describe her brother.

Octavia comes into the kitchen like a whirlwind, headspinning to take in what is going on before making her way towards Clarke andsettling into the seat next to her, placing her crossed arms on the counter infront of her and sighing dramatically when no one acknowledges her directly.

“Octavia,” Emori calls from by the oven, “do you wantcookies in the next ten minutes? Or the next three hours?”

They both watch from the counter as Murphy rolls his eyes.“They’ll be ready in like twenty minutes tops, not three hours! And they’ll be delicious,” he adds, mock-glaring atEmori.

Their glares hold for a whole second before they’re lookingat each other fondly again.

Octavia chooses to ignore them, focusing her attention onClarke, which should be her first sign. “Your hair’s back to normal,” sheobserves, tugging on a short strand to apparently scrutinize the blonde qualityof it.

“It wastemporary.” She swats Octavia’s hand away so she can capture the admiration onMurphy’s face to make fun of him later.

When Clarke continues to ignore her in favor of her sketch,Octavia decides to give Clarke a heart attack.

“I just came back from lunch with Bell,” she says, voice fartoo innocent for Clarke’s liking. That should have been her second sign.

She pauses for a second at the mention of Bellamy, but keepsdrawing, not thinking about the Bellamy from a week ago and trying to continueto act like she would any other time Bellamy’s name would come up.

Which would be to hum and nod until Octavia moved on totalking about something else.

So she hums and nods, laser-focusing on her book.

“Yeah,” Octavia goes on, “all he could talk about was somegirl he met at work last weekend.”

And that, is when the heart attack slowly starts to set in.

“A girl?” Emori chimes in, grabbing any reason to come overand leave the baking to Murphy. “He met a girl while working night shift? Isthat even possible?”

“Was it a statue?” Murphy asks, starting to roll the doughinto balls and put them on a tray.

“Nope,” Octavia responds, head tilting to observe even theslightest change in how Clarke moves. She can feel her heart starting to pound,her skin tingling. And she can feel Octavia’s eyes watching her like a hawk. There’sabsolutely no way Bellamy figured out it was her, but Octavia is a whole otherspecies of observant. “She was the artist this week for the local artistsprogram that’s been going on. Apparently they spent hours going through themuseum, but then she left in a rush before he could get her name, only leavinga sketch book behind.”

“Of course she did,” Murphy says while sliding the tray intothe oven. “Sounds like some kind of serious Cinderella shi–,” he halts, whippingaround to face the three of them, realization dawning on his face as Clarke’surge to crawl under the counter intensifies. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” Emori asks curiously, completely oblivious toClarke’s turmoil as Murphy stares at her in shock and Octavia smirkstriumphantly.

Octavia chooses not to answer her, instead continuing onwith her conversation in a far-to-casual tone. “Yeah, I guess this girl wasamazing. Totally passionate about what she does, seemed interested in all of hisnerding out about the different exhibits, an incredible artist…”

Clarke can feel her face burning as she closes her book andplaces her stuff on the counter, turning to glare at her and ignore Murphygaping. She can’t even begin to pick apart the things Octavia is saying.

Emori looks between the three of them. “I’m clearly missingsomething.”

“I thought I was too,” Octavia says. “It just wasn’t addingup to me, because I know who the artist this week was, and what my brother wastelling me wasn’t making sense, because he knows her too. That is, until hetold me about her hair.”

“Her hair?” Emori says, confused, looking to Clarke for someexplanation.

Murphy finishes the story, eyes never leaving Clarke. “Herhair was blue. He didn’t know it was her.”

“How do you know that?” Emori asks Murphy, but stops fromasking anything else when she sees the other two staring expectantly at Clarke.

It’s quiet after that, all three of them looking for threevery different explanations. And she realizes with a start that if Octaviaknows…

“Please tell me you didn’t tell him,” she tells Octavia,panicked for reasons she couldn’t even begin to explain. All she knows is thathe can’t know it was her.

“What I’m not getting is why you didn’t.” Octavia levels herwith a look that can only be described as unimpressed.

Emori’s eyes widen when she finally understands. “Holy shit,Clarke is Cinderella.”

“I’m not Cinderella,” Clarke groans, putting her head downon the counter in defeat.

“Clarke,” Octavia starts once Clarke peers up through herarms. “Do you realize he’s been trying to find you? He’s been going around toplaces that host art from local artists looking for your signature. He actuallyasked me to find out if Lincoln knew who you were. You’re all he could talkabout today! This princess who he can’t get out of his head.”

“That’s just it!” Clarke argues, lifting her head defiantly.He’s been looking for me, plays onloop in her head. “This princess that he’s actually known for years and ohyeah, he actually can’t stand,” she finishes, dismayed.

Octavia looks almost hurt at her words. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is, Octavia.” Clarke can hear the disappointment inher voice. “The minute Bellamy finds out it’s me, it will be over before it caneven start.”

“You make it sound like he’ll find out eventually,” Murphypoints out, leaning in on the other side of the counter.

Clarke looks at Octavia, trying to portray her thoughtswithout having to say it. Octavia may do anything for Clarke, but she wouldnever lie to her brother, especially when Bellamy is asking for her andLincoln’s help.

Understanding, and frustration, dawns on Octavia’s face. “Ican’t lie to him,” she says. “I don’t know what you think will happen once hefinds out. He’s not the angry eighteen-year-old you met when I came here. Butyou have to give him a chance.”

“Like he’s always given me a chance?” Whatever tiny bit ofindignation Clarke has in her decides to make an appearance, even if she knowsit’s not fair.

Octavia’s expression changes from one of frustration toanger instantly and Emori and Murphy eye each other warily. “You mean duringthe time he lost the only parent he ever had and me? Or when his life was completely uprooted and he didn’t havea single stable outlet to turn to?” She challenges, and the guilt hits Clarkeinstantaneously.

Bellamy was a fleeting thought over the past three years,and before that, she was in no place to hold what he said against him. His lifehad fallen apart, and he was trying to stand on his feet for no other reasonthan to make sure Octavia was okay. She was the only constant in his life, andhe was taking on responsibilities people his age couldn’t even begin toimagine, including Clarke.

She said that she had understood, that she got it, but howcould she possibly ever?

“I’m sorry. I’m just– I should have told him, but I’ve neverseen him like that and I liked it. Iliked that he joked with me and was sweet. He was animated and passionate andthrew himself into our conversations. I didn’t want to ruin it,” she admitsglumly.

“Clarke,” Octavia sighs, frustrated. “That is my big brother. He’s awkward, and anerd, and clearly doesn’t know how to get a girl’s name, let alone her number. Youmet him at the worst point in his life. The guy you remember literally doesn’texist, let him show you.”

Clarke tries to imagine a world where everything works outthe way Octavia thinks it will. But real life doesn’t turn out like that, lifeisn’t a fairytale.

She opts to burrowing her head in her arms again, groaningin frustration. “And if he does hate me?” She asks, voice smaller than she’dlike.

She feels Octavia move to wrap her arm around her, squeezingher reassuringly. “I know my brother, and I’m 99% sure he’s head over heels forthe princess, for you.”

“And,” Murphy adds while sliding a plate of warm cookiestowards her until it bumps her arms, “if that other 1% were to happen, we’lljust drown your sorrows in delicious, home-made cookies.”

“John.”

Clarke picks up her head once more, stealing a cookie andstuffing it in her mouth forlornly. “I’ll tell him once everything with theexhibit is over.”

At Octavia’s dubious look, Clarke reaches for her hand andgives it a squeeze.

“Give me the week till then, and I’ll tell him right after.I promise.”

—

That summer before college, Clarke spent as much time aspossible with her friends and family. She never saw Bellamy again.

She went to school, and kept in touch with Octavia, Raven,and Wells all the time, Murphy every once in a while.

Octavia would give her updates on her life, which would ofcourse include updates on Bellamy as well. How could it not, when she loved himso much?

Clarke, he decided tostart taking night classes! Isn’t that amazing?

He’s switching tofull-time at Ark U!

He seems so muchhappier, Clarke. He’s doing well.

When she was home for breaks, she never saw him. She wasconvinced he specifically avoided coming to the house when he knew she washome.

And when Clarke dropped out, after she realized she couldn’tdo what she was doing for however many more years of school, let alone the restof her life, she didn’t come home immediately. She rented an apartment for ayear with the money her dad had left her, and sat around for a month before hersketchbook found its way into her hands after years of neglect.

And she drew, and sketched, and painted.

It was the hardest time she’d had since her dad died. Shevisited home, came for holidays, but she kept going back to that apartment tokeep drawing, sketching, and painting until she was ready to come home forgood, and make her passion a reality.

She spoke with Raven and Octavia constantly. They kept hergoing, telling her about everything and anything going on in their lives orwith the people at home – Raven moving on to her masters faster than anyoneelse in her program, Murphy dating a girl who matched his fire with her own,Octavia meeting an artist who was gentle and kind.

But after a while, Bellamy’s name didn’t come up. Octavia stoppedmentioning him to her.

And Clarke didn’t ask.

—

“Are you nervous?”

Clarke turns to where Raven is standing in the doorway toher bedroom while she puts her other earring in.

“Of course I am,” she admits, running her hands down thefront of her black dress, “but it’s not like I’m selling them or anything, soeven if it’s just you guys that show up, I won’t have pure tangible proof thatnobody wants to buy my paintings.”

Raven rolls her eyes, moving into the room and ploppingherself on Clarke’s bed. “The whole town shows up for these exhibits whetherthey’re good or bad, and yours kicks ass. I bet people are going to be offeringyou money for them anyway.”

Clarke still gives her a nervous smile, turning back towardthe mirror for one final check.

She decided to move back when she did because she was ready.She had missed her friends and family more than anything, but she also knewthat she wasn’t getting anything more out of staying in the apartment. Betweenspeaking with Lincoln about the program he was involved with at the museum, andMarcus encouraging her to submit some of her pieces for the monthly Local Art Show,she knew it was time.

It’s just, this is the first time her work will be out therefor people to critique.

Running her hands through her hair one more time, theysettle on the pink tinged at the tips. “I like the pink better than the blue,”she tells Raven, who snorts in response.

“That’s because it’s not your entire head that’s pink. Itold you I’d get it right when we did it for real.”

She turns back to Raven. “You and Wells will be there whenit starts?”

Raven sits up from where she was laying. “We’ll be the firstones in, right after Abby and Marcus.”

Clarke gives her a nod before going to grab her bag off thedresser. She’s too keyed up to not get there early to make sure everything isset up how she left it the night before.

Octavia hadn’t been thrilled about withholding the truthfrom her brother, but she knew how important this exhibit was to Clarke. So forthe week leading up to it, Octavia reluctantly told Clarke when Bellamy was onshift at the museum so that she could go in and set up her section of theexhibit when he wasn’t there.

She knew the moment he heard her voice, he’d realize thetruth for himself.

But she’s not expecting him to be standing in front of her landscapepaintings when she walks in to do her final check, wearing his securityuniform.

She freezes on the spot, eyes widening in a combination ofsurprise, anxiety, and nervous energy.

He turns at the sound of her heels on the tiled floor, andhis eyes widen too, his in complete shock.

“Clarke?”

She just stands there, not knowing what emotions are runningthrough her, let alone knowing what to say.

“O said you were back in town, I just never expected to seeyou here,” Bellamy says.

Clarke watches him, tries to analyze what he’s thinking byhis tone. He doesn’t sound accusatoryor angry, but she’s also never heard her name come out his mouth like that –just pure surprise.

Does he know? Did he figure it out before she had a chanceto tell him?

When she doesn’t respond, he ducks his head, smile wry. “Ijust got off my shift, but I wanted to check something out in the exhibitbefore it opens tonight.”

He’s been going aroundto places that host art from local artists looking for your signature.

Bellamy turns his head back to her paintings, and shewatches his eyes focus on the crown settled in the corner of one of them.

“You don’t happen to know the girl who did these, do you?”He asks, gesturing to her work.

If Clarke’s stomach wasn’t wound up in enough knots, itcertainly is at realizing he stilldoesn’t know it’s her. If she doesn’t tell him now, there will be no going backfrom this.

She opens her mouth. “I–,” and then shuts it again.

But he’s looking at her so curiously, if not the slightest bit confused. He may not know she’sthe girl he’s been looking for, but he knows that she’s Clarke – the girl he’sknown for years – and could Octavia be right? The guy she remembers wasn’t whoBellamy really is?

“They’re mine,” she tells him, voice far stronger than shefeels. “I’m one of the artists showcasing tonight.”

His curiosity turns to confusion instantly, glancing betweenher and the pieces again before turning to face her fully. She didn’t realizehow well she’d been able to read his emotions over the years until his face iscompletely unreadable.

“You’re her?” He asks, tone unreadable too. “The princesswith the blue hair?” She feels his eyes narrow in on her pink hair.

“Yes,” she says, trying not to panic as she takes a steptowards him. “I was going to tell you–”

“But you didn’t, Clarke,” he cuts in, voice as neutral asever. He takes a step back. “You knew it was me the entire time and you chosenot to tell me.”

Clarke stays where she is, her heart beginning to splinterat how he’s looking at her. She has noidea what he is thinking, but dread is starting to creep up on her. “Iwanted to tell you, but I was afraid.”

“Afraid of me?” The hurt in his voice conveys exactly how heinterpreted her words.

“No! Of course not,” she protests. “At first I thought youknew it was me, and we were just going to start off fresh, but then you didn’tknow, and I was afraid that if you knew, you would realize you didn’t actuallywant to be there. That I was still the girl you couldn’t stand to be around.”

“Couldn’t stand,” he repeats, running a hand through hishair. “God Clarke, I know I was awful to you back then, but I didn’t know howto fix that. I thought you despised me, so I took myself out of the picture.”

“Bellamy–,” she tries, this time desperate. Despise him?

“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.” He looks at her,and suddenly every emotion he was hiding is on full display for her to see. “I’msorry that you ever thought that I did, and I’m sorry that you felt youcouldn’t tell me the truth because you thought I wouldn’t want you once I foundout.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s makinghis way out of the exhibit, ignoring her pleas for him to stop, to wait. Shegrabs for his arm, but lets go when they get to the exit and Marcus and her momwalk through.

They’re separated when her mom pulls her in for a hug,telling her how excited she is to see the pieces Clarke submitted so they camea bit early, as Marcus greets Bellamy, who continues taking steps away.

“It’s good to see you, Marcus, but I have to head out,” hetells him, refusing to glance at Clarke as he makes his escape. She feels likeher heart is ripping in two, and she wonders if this is how he felt that nightshe had left in a rush.

He’s gone before she can even call his name, and she feelsher parents’ eyes on her from behind. “Everything okay?” Marcus asks.

She takes a minute to compose herself, swallow down everywild emotion, before she turns to give them a smile she knows they can read asfake.

“Everything’s fine,” she tells them, and goes to show themall of her hard work.

—

The rest of the night is a blur.

Far more people than she could have imagined show up tosupport her and the other artists, people she’s never seen before in her life.

But then there’s the people she knows and loves – herparents, Raven and Wells, Octavia and Lincoln, Murphy and Emori, Monty andMiller, even Jasper.

They all shower her with congratulations and praise, tellingher how the few pieces she was able to submit were amazing, and she allows fortheir words to flow through her, give her the energy to converse with strangersand network for businesses who may be interested in eventually purchasing oneof her paintings.

She does it all with a smile, and hours later, when thecrowd has broken and only a few people linger, she settles down on one of thevelvet benches in front of her work.

Not a minute later, Octavia drops down next to her, twoglasses of champagne in hand. She wordlessly hands one to Clarke, and continuesto stare at the paintings.

“I’m sure Marcus will be thrilled that the minors here havesuch easy access to the alcohol.”

“Ha. Ha,” Octavia retorts, making a show of taking a gulp. “Thiswas amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

Clarke sighs, all of the events from the night catching upwith her. “You’ll be prouder to know that I spoke with Bellamy,” she tells her,and that gets Octavia’s full attention.

“You did?”

“Yep,” she takes a sip from her glass. “And then he walkedright out the front door after confirming everything you’ve been trying to tellme. He doesn’t hate me,” Clarke takes another, larger sip, “but I also don’tthink we’ll ever get back what we had that night.”

“Oh Clarke,” Octavia says, tilting her head to rest it onClarke’s shoulder. “Give him some time.”

Clarke wasn’t sure all the time in the world could fix this,but she lets Octavia console and reassure her anyways.

“Hey! We’re heading to the house for the after party,” Ravencalls from the entrance to the exhibit, Lincoln and Wells standing behind her.It’s only then that Clarke realizes that everyone else has cleared out. “Youcoming with us, Octavia?”

She looks to Clarke. “I can stay, just head home with you.”

“You go,” Clarke insists. “I’ll head out soon, just want totake everything in a little while longer.”

Octavia hesitates, but ends up pulling Clarke in for a hugbefore moving to stand up. “He’ll come around,” she assures her, and heads outwith Raven and the boys in tow.

Alone, Clarke takes in a deep breath through her nose,letting out a long sigh as she closes her eyes. She’s not really surprised whenshe feels someone sit down next to her, figures it’s Raven or Wells coming toconvince her to come with them.

But then she opens her eyes to find Bellamy staring back ather with the smallest of smiles on his face, and Clarke is alert in an instant.

She takes him in, looking almost – shy. The fact that he’snow in a suit isn’t lost on her.

“Um, hi.” He clears his throat. “Here.”

From his other side, he lifts her small sketch book she hadleft behind that night, and gently places it in her hands that are settled inher lap. “I’ve been carrying it around in case I found you so I could returnit, and of course the one time I need it, I don’t have it.” The blush thatrises to his ears is not lost on her either.

Clarke can’t help the smile on her face. How did she neverpush to get him to let her in like she had with Octavia and Murphy? Why didn’tshe see his defenses were up?

Because now? He’s not hiding at all.

“I should have set everything straight the moment I figuredout you didn’t know,” she confesses, setting the book on her other side on thebench.

“Maybe,” he agrees, bright eyes catching her gaze, “but Iwouldn’t change that night for anything.”

What she should do is smile and say something to keeptalking until they have everything out in the open. But really, everything’slaid out pretty clearly. They both shouldn’t have said some things, should havesaid things they didn’t and done things differently. But they were either youngand hurting, or unaware and hesitant.

And now, they’re not.

Now, they’re sitting in a museum that only holds a smallpart of their story, and Clarke would really like to continue that story withhim.

So she closes the distance between them on the bench,brushing her lips against his softly, quickly. She pulls back almostimmediately, hoping she’s not ruining something she thinks could be amazing.

His eyes are wide, and she can practically see the hopewarring with something else there. She pushes that something else away by leaningin again, kissing him like she really wants to – full of promise and want andjoy.

He responds in kind, matching her kisses with ones of hisown that hold just as many promises, and possibly even more joy. His handreaches up into her curls, holding her head and pulling her even closer to him.

Eventually, Clarke finds she’s smiling too much to keepkissing him and pulls away to beam at him instead, and his responding smile isjust as satisfying as kissing him.

“So what does that mean?” He asks her as the hand in herhair softly runs over the pink strands. The look he’s giving her can only bedescribed as warm.

“I like you,” she responds instantly, pulling him in foranother quick kiss. “And I wouldn’t change that night for anything either,but…”

“But?” He prompts, leaning in close.

“But I want many, many more nights like that with you, andmore.”

“And more,” he echoes, grinning. “Sounds good to me, Princess.”

And so, the next chapter of their story begins.

[killing-for-candy]

Full offense, but people are all worried about Kylo not getting enough attention and being the trew Skywalker heir... For right now, he is the only known Skywalker descendant after his mother and Luke that we know of. LF keeps saying this is another adaption to the Skywalker family saga... Is Luke's personal confliction with Kylo going to be different than learning his father was Darth Vader? Fuck yes, it will. Luke likely watched the kid grow up and turn to the dark side probably without his immediate knowledge. That is devastating; imagine knowing someone so well (especially the child of his twin sister and best friend) turn his back on everything you had fought to teach him. It's a little reminiscent of Obi-Wan and Anakin, but at the same time, it isn't. Luke is a man who wore his heart on his sleeve from the beginning of the series. He chose his destiny to become a Jedi when his aunt and uncle were killed. He was devastated at the loss of Obi-Wan. Over his Jedi training, Luke always chose his friends over his teachings. Which in the end was his ultimate strength. Luke Skywalker was capable of severe love and devotion, that's why he survived. Had he not been capable of loving his father indefinitely without even knowing him, Luke would have failed. I hate to say "this is why Rey Skywalker is important", but I just gotta say... Rey Skywalker is important. Rey's unknown parentage is utterly useless if she isn't Luke's child. There was no reason to keep it a secret. The Skywalker lightsaber didn't need to make a reappearance (after being long gone and lost in the OT) and call to Rey twice, even bypassing Kylo (Leia's son) in the process. I don't think anybody realizes how stupid and damaging Rey/lo or any other theories are. Rey is nearly immediately introduced as a family oriented character. She has been waiting on Jakku for fourteen years and remains hopeful "they will be back... Some day." Rey counts tallies on her wall for how long she has been stuck on a desert planet. As soon as Rey gets off Jakku, she tries to return but is unsuccessful as she is subsequently introduced to every current member of the Skywalker family. But only Luke and Leia seem to recognize her. Their time with Rey is so limited onsceen. And I find that odd as fuck if she isn't a Skywalker, it's awfully silly to think that Rey needs Kylo to fulfill her needs when Rey's main motivation has always been her long lost family. Rey needs closure and acceptance and so does Luke. Neither of them are going to confront that solace if they aren't connected/related. Sure, she might not be a Skywalker by blood. That's my personal preference, but even then, I'd rather that outcome than Rey being related to some character who is long dead and won't boost her characteristics in the long run. You have missed the point of Star Wars entirely if you can't accept that the focal point is still the Skywalker family lmao.

[mnm-inc-miles]

JUSTIN. The day my daughter was born my life changed entirely. I had been so uncertain of everything I ever did before her but when I held Isabella Justice for the first time I knew that despite all the trials and tribulations, everything happened for the sole purpose of bringing her into my life. The moment was bittersweet because unbeknownst to myself and my wife at the time, my youngest sister whom my parents adopted when she was six years old, had taken her own life at only fourteen. Jordan and I had gotten pretty close because my parents also adopted me, so when the news came through I felt my heart drop to the floor. My sister Gabriela who was only sixteen at the time, was in charge of watching her. My other sister Megan lived with her fiancée and my brother was married and had his own children to look after, twins only a year old. My parents were at the hospital with me when they got the phone call about Jordan. The atmosphere changed for the worse. I remember holding Isabella while her mother, Lindsay was sleeping. I cried. While I had tried so hard to not show this to my infant daughter, it happened and I felt like she understood. She held my finger in her tiny hand and kept squeezing as her dark eyes stared into mine. She had my eyes. This tiny creature that I held, that I was now responsible for protecting, I had played a part in creating her. As I held her close, stifling my tears I couldn’t stop thinking of Jordan. With the timing I wondered if perhaps a piece of her spirit was still with me now. The last time I had lost someone so important to me I was in the service. I was on basic training when my sister Megan called me to tell me that Remi was missing. The first time I had met Remi was when she slept over our house, she was a friend of Megan’s. They were both twelve which was two years younger than I was but she was unlike any girl I’d ever met. I remember the first words she said to me. “You have the most hypnotic eyes.” She said this point blank to my face and I remember Megan joked she was going to puke but Remi was fearlessly honest. In truth, she was the one who hypnotized me. They ran to her room giggling and I didn’t hear from them the rest of the night. We would start talking in the halls, getting to know each other in tiny blips of time, and maybe to doesn’t sound like a fairytale but moments with her were always the highlights of my day. One night when she was fourteen she slept over, it would turn out to be the last time her parents would allow it, I found her crying outside. “Remi, what are you doing out here?” I hadn’t noticed she was in tears until she turned away, saying something about needing some air. Like an idiot I asked if she was okay when clearly she was not. “I can’t talk about it Justin. I just...I can’t.” Then she broke down. I held her close and told her it would be okay. Then I lifted her chin and our eyes met. “You still have the most enchanting eyes I’ve ever seen...so much warmth. Like I’ve known you all my life...” I kissed her. I was nervous because I had only ever done it once before. She melted in my arms, more tears suddenly streaming down her face. “What happened, I’m sorry...did I do something wrong?” I held her close as she shivered, and she just cried herself to sleep. We were nearly inseparable since that moment. I wasn’t able to get her to talk to me, she wouldn’t let me kiss her either. I could hold her, she always said I made her feel safe, but she just couldn’t be with me, she couldn’t be with anyone. She didn’t give me a reason until I was about to ship off to basic training. I was almost nineteen and she was a junior in high school. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you Justin,” she confessed. “Find another sucker to woo, I imagine.” “You act like you’re a love sick puppy, you have the freedom, it’s not my fault you broke up with your girlfriend.” “Yeah I know, but nothing beats your best friend. You are irreplaceable, Remi.” “You don’t want to date me though. That would be different, things would change...you wouldn’t like it...” “What why?” I had always fantasized about dating her but it never came up again until now. “You just wouldn’t like the things you’d learn...I can’t be with anyone, I told you. I’m...dirty.” “What? Remi, what...what are you saving?” She was in tears as she kissed me, asked me not to ever forget about her, then she ran away. I never saw her again. When Megan told me she went missing I was devastated. When I came back from training I tried to talk to her brother, her parents, the police. No one had any leads. I was heartbroken. When I turned 24 I had my first deployment. The tragedy of 9/11 had just happened and we were going to war to stop terrorism. I was terrified I had never been overseas or even in the line of action yet. That’s when I met Sargent Bram De Vries. He was in charge of our unit. He kept me safe. He had taken a liking to me, he felt I was too sensitive to be in the service even if I did physically fit the bill. He had a great sense of humor but he was moody, there was something dark within him. He never scared me though, and he was the bravest man I’d ever met. There were a number of times he put his neck on the line for me. Countless actions that made me admire him even more as a person. Beyond that, he was an adoring husband. He told me the story of he and his wife meeting in the service, she was a medic. He told me about how he was orphaned by his parents during some tragic accident that he can barely remember, he grew up in and out of foster care but mostly in the orphanage itself. He felt lucky enough that a family came for him when he was seventeen and he went to a public school where he met recruiters and that’s where he joined the army. He had a lot of stories to tell, you could easily see he’d lived a long hard life and he was only in his mid twenties. We saw a lot of horrors during the war, it changed a lot of people for the worse. Civilians didn’t believe we were helping them so they weren’t kind to us, not in the beginning. This caused a lot of the soldiers to be needlessly aggressive back, we saw children with bombs on their chests, men hiding in bushes waiting to blow up anyone who walked by, women and their young ones running or hiding, it was so hard to tell who was dangerous and who was a victim. I will admit I was scared, I tried my hardest to do my duty and serve my country, because I was proud of it, that’s part of why I joined the army to begin with. However, it was hard work. I respect a lot of my platoon, especially the higher ups, because they were in this for life. It was their job and they had so much pride for their work. I knew when my time was up there’s no way I was going back. I would take my time served and value the lessons I learned, but I was going to take the benefits and get a college education. I always loved theater and film, and I would try my hand at that during off time in the service. I had some small time success on some daytime soap operas but figured a good education in theater would go a long way. I decided as well to double major in history. It was always my strongest subject in school, and I felt it was never boring. There’s always so much to learn from history. When I left the service I kept in touch with Bram. We wrote letters to each other every week and we would talk on the phone maybe once a month, sometimes even video chat. Our relationship grew deeper and I learned a lot that he’d never opened up about when we were over seas. Over time I learned how he and his wife lost six children and finally I got a letter stating some bittersweet news, the seventh child conceived was born. It was a miracle she survived because she had a condition that left her nearly defenseless to the world but in the process of delivery he’d lost his wife too. Now his daughter, Benni was all he had left in the world. Bram confessed he had to leave his daughter when she was first born because he was still part of the army, but was told this could be his last deployment, and that his daughter was in the hospital receiving special treatment until he could return home and learn how to properly care for her. When he returned he could retire from the army altogether. I had always planned to visit him and meet Benni but it simply never happened. Time kept getting away from me. I kept getting small roles on television, enough to keep me busy and afloat at least. And of course then I had Isabella only a few years after Benni had been born. Which brings us close to full circle. As I’ve already made clear, my daughter was a huge turning point in my life. Somehow having Isabella made me think about Remi. I started dwelling on her a lot and decided something didn’t sit right with me. I needed to find out what happened. I returned to my hometown and knocked on her parents door. Her brother answered, though he seemed less than thrilled to see me. “I wanted to talk about your sister, Remi.” “I know who she is,” he snapped as he pushed by me. Apparently he was on his way out with a handful of bags. “Where are you going?” “Away, leave me alone. My sister is gone, she has been for nearly five years. So just fuck off.” “Can’t I just talk to you about what happened?” He turned quickly, “I don’t know what happened. She just disappeared. I’m going to college, I’m moving on with my life and I’m getting the fuck away from here. If you keep me any longer I’ll miss my flight. It cost nearly all my savings so back off.” Dallas wasn’t quite like I remembered him, he’d always been a funny kid. Good looking, charming and always pleasant. This was an entirely different person. Something wasn’t right, but I dismissed the feeling and returned home to my family, defeated. Now let me tell you, being a parent wasn’t easy, especially married to a woman that, although I loved and admired her, she had changed so much and no longer loved me as she once had. Needless to say we got a divorce. I was distraught. I felt like a failure. I wrote Bram about it. It was the first letter I’d written him in a few months. He had taken more time to respond to letters now too. We were falling out of each other’s lives. Funny how distance can do that. Surprisingly he responded very quickly. Now Bram wasn’t always the most literate person, he was more street wise then anything. However, this letter sent red flags up all around. His thoughts were very scattered, and although some of the messages were clear it was evident that something was very wrong. Some of what he wrote sounded almost paranoid. He spoke a lot about Benni and even included a picture of her. She was about eleven at this point, had this cute boy cut and a baggy t shirt with overalls. She had her fathers eyes, this grayish blue with a dark ring around the outside. But there was no return address. I tried to write him back with the address I had originally, thanking him for the advice but also asking if I could come over for that long over visit we had once both been excited for. He never responded to that letter. I was laying in bed at night, my mind reeling over the events in my life, specifically the ones that left me in question. Remi and Bram both disappeared out of my life. I impulsively hired a private investigator and found out that Dallas too had gone missing. My sister suggested contacting Cory, since the boys had been best friends but that was a dead end. He had no idea what happened to Dallas, like he magically didn’t exist anymore. For over five years so far I’ve searched for answers and have come up stale. My original PI gave up on me after four years of no leads or simply dead ends. The second one I hired worked with a team and in nearly two years we haven’t found much. But I made a promise to Remi that I wouldn’t forget her. And I owed it to Bram to find out what was happening, to save him for a change. So I knew I would never stop trying. I decided in addition to these cases I would give the team another job, I wanted to speak with my birth parents. I wanted to know my story. I was beginning to feel abandoned, which is common for most adopted children but had never truly been something I’d struggled with having had such a loving family. But the weight of loss was too much and I needed some answers, of any kind.