#marlowe x hitch

[hilow-week]

We're so excited to announce the prompts for Hitchlowe Week 2023! We can't wait to see your creations! If you're not sure what to make for the free day, we've also compiled a list of prompts that didn't make the final roster below ⬇️⬇️⬇️

[dreamingon-forever]

They all deserved better

Attack on Titan? More like Attack on Ships. They all left their other halves behind.

There's no greater pain than finally living in a better world that you've dreamt of with your significant other, but being the only one that made it.

[firefly--bright]

illuminated.

✩‧₊˚☾

masquerade chapter two.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, regency a.u.

chapter summary ; for the first time, under the glimmering lights, there he is, his mask stronger than ever.

chapter warning ; familial issues/abandonment, trust issues, slight angst?

a/n ; kinda went insane and wrote most of this in one sitting haha. anyways, as always, i hope this is well enjoyed :) comments, reblogs, likes, etc are always deeply appreciated!

taglist ; @mrsnobodynobody @jeanscremebrulee @holding-infinity-and-a-book @happxme @berrijam @hopeless-anti-romantic @cherrypieyourface @imgayandshesanime @moonmalice @potaho3frog @kivernova

☾ series masterlist ☾ main masterlist ☾ enter my taglist ☾

✩‧₊˚☾

it happens a little too fast. you're fifteen, and your mother stops oiling your hair for a moment, making you snap your eyes open from the relaxed state of your body.

"your father and I were discussing your future," she says, and her soothing voice grates against your ears because you knew this news could not be a good one. when your 'future' was in question, you weren't given much of a choice, really. it was one of two routes, either those choices or uncertain poverty at the hands of a merciless god.

they weren't god. you were sure no god could be as cruel as this, but you were fifteen. how would you know? you're sitting on the cool floor in your childhood house, in the belly of the beast as your mother had asked you to. it smells like the night - faint Jasmine and the fire burning in the little fireplace in front of you. your house, your beast, was far smaller than the richer folks that conditioned you into being there, but a little larger than the ones more unfortunate than you - the ones without any familial connections and controls pulling on feeble life that they willingly created.

the Marleyans weren't gods, yet they controlled your life as one. you were sure of it, because even while giving mercy to your family, you were still trapped by people you knew were seventy or older, people who only smiled gleefully when inferiors were shamed. the inferiors in question, however, were you. your people. your mother, your father, your grandfather, your brother. in this beast - this house that was paid off as a so-called gift but was built on shame and guilt - that was lit up by their inventions. your mother was devoid of all the riches you'd seen them wear, but even seeing them up-close without threat was a privilege that you considered in your defence.

you blink, looking at the dying fire, not opening your mouth to speak. you're too afraid. you always have been, you think, ever since you were younger than this.

you hear her sigh placatingly, braiding your hair into a single plait.

"We will marry you off next year." she says. "There are no other choices." your language rolled off her tongue smoothly, something you knew she was ashamed of because of them. the non-gods. the Marleyans.

it felt like a slap to the cheek even when all she was doing was combing back your hair with feather light hands, speaking in a gentle voice that carried out the letter of a language you learnt from infancy because your grandfather refused to let it be forgotten.

"why can I not do as you are now?" you ask. at fifteen, your voice was shaky and unanswered.

"this does not make an adequate living."

there's a pause. you refuse to speak because you are far too stubborn to admit that she is right. but that cannot be an answer you accept. you blink again, turning around to face her, your knees on the ground and your hands grasping her oily ones.

It smells like jasmine and coconut.

"but I do not want to. it will not be out of love-" you start, cut short by your mother's sound. you're not sure if it's a laugh or a sob but she looks at you as a burden. you think you might be.

"love is not meant for us, sweetheart."

that night, it was decided. you would be married off to an officer - 'young' they described him, but you knew he wouldn't be with the way your father covered his mouth with a cough, his telltale sign of a lie. your life would no longer be yours, but you supposed it never was.

a week later, you were nowhere to be seen. it was raining, a torrential downfall as your mother (you imagined this. you're not sure if this really happened or if you wanted to cling on to the last bits of hope you had left that your family was still yours) would read your letter in broken English and your older brother would lock up the chest with the remainder of your clothes and paintings, your grandfather would pace around the house slowly, as best as his feet could allow him, and your father would go out in search for you, unknowing that you had crossed half an ocean already.

but Mikasa didn't do as such. she was not like you but you always wondered why she felt this heavy while talking about duty. Was it the surplus wealth that she had that you lacked during your childhood? or was it the fear of uncertainty?

you didn't know what it was and you didn't dare ask. you were afraid, as you always had been, but you knew when to show it and when to keep it hidden away, damning it from seeing the light.

her shoulders did not shake with sobs, her lips did not wobble with unshed tears. in this, you were similar - you'd never show anything other than hope and thankfulness towards each other. or anyone, really, because you knew that line could not be crossed. yes, you had seen her in her most vulnerable states, but she never shed a tear, never claimed her woes even while you knew she wanted to.

she simply walked; steadily, unshaken, from her father's study to her bedroom. the door was left open for you to step in, and you took the invitation with a little pride. she wouldn't hide from you.

you shut the door behind you. Mikasa let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sinking. she sits at her bed and you sit on the floor, holding her knee gently as she looks at her feet.

"there is... a ball to be held. here. people will be there. everyone." she spoke in broken sentences, as if she was trying to formulate a language of her own. but you understood anyway, rubbing small circles on her knee. "i am to choose someone. not sure if it's even a choice," there it was. the breaking point. she breathes out a humourless laugh, a small breath.

"i..." you start, but there is no end to your statement. you can offer her no words of comfort. what would you have wanted when you were fifteen? you'd have wanted a choice. and when you didn't have one, you created one for yourself, playing your own god.

but she cannot. she would not, something you knew for a fact, go against her family's wishes, for reasons you could not find.

You hold her hand with everything you could. Words have always failed you when you’ve needed them the most, but your touch was always present. Your want for it may have been compensated by your abundance of giving it, but you hope it’s enough as you hold her right hand with both of yours, rubbing circles into the her soft palm.

“maybe... maybe you really will find someone wealthy in both personality and money. If you find someone in that ball that is strong in both; his character and his assets, then you would be satisfied, if you cannot be happy.” you say. You try – so hard – to make sure she knew that she could live a normal life after these events. As hopeless as you sounded voicing out the possibilities, you had to make her believe that it could not be completely worse, her life could not be completely trapped.

She sighed. She says your name pleadingly, “half the men in the country lack in either one of those things if they have the other. It is not money i care for.” she states, a truth you’ve known since knowing mikasa.

Her eyes don’t meet yours, but you know she is still unshaken. Her fingers grab yours, now, and you count that as a small victory. You shift a little closer to her, your knees scraping against the rug.

“i’ve heard there are new families that have travelled from far to live here. Maybe one of them could be a little...adequate.” you speak, hesitation lacing your voice. You could do nothing but offer some hope to your dear friend, despite these being half-truths. It was not completely false. You had heard some stories claiming there to be some new families having moved in, but these were not guaranteed to be all the traits Lord Ackerman has been searching for. You were sure no-one would be able to fulfil the man’s expectations, especially not when it came to his only daughter.

Mikasa had never been one for romance. Not overtly, at least, because you never saw her yearning of her wedding day like you had heard your childhood friends do, in their childhood innocence and sparkly eyes as they stole their mother’s hidden precious jewellery, looking into the mirror. You also had hope – refusing to participate in the realities of the world, indulging in your little fantasies instead. But those fantasies had faded away shortly after you had left everything behind. The hope never had, but you could not let your imagination run rampant. But not mikasa.

You werent too sure why it was. Why she chose the books that described history and the world outside of this town’s limited lense, biographies of authors and experimentalists until she’d fall asleep at her desk and you’d have to guide her to her room before she fell too deep into her slumber.

Romance wasn’t something she was looking for. Even now, with a grand marriage prospect in the near future, all she hoped for was to tolerate the man and family she would forced into.

She nods slowly, letting you know that she’s considering your words that had nothing but fragile hope, but she knew this was the best she could have.

You smiled a little, your fingers not ceasing from comforting her hands. “if all else is hopeless, we can always run away together.” she smiles back, breathing out a laugh.

“two cats?” she asks, fully engaging in the childish daydreams you had curated through sleepless nights.

“black and ginger.”

you were grateful that the late afternoon did not bring the heat as much as they did during blazing summers. The clothes had been hung up to dry shortly after your conversation with mikasa, who wished to have some time alone, requesting some parchment and ink. You knew a little too well who she’d be writing to, who she’d pull you aside to tell you where to deliver the letter to.

These few hours were yours. During the day, you would be buzzing around the house until your heels ached, giving Lord Ackerman his mail from overseas business, dusting the small corners of the house, helping Mr. Berner with his new, experimental dishes and then helping him clean right after. Despite all of this, the late afternoon was yours to cherish. Lady Ackerman was either in the salon or her chambers, talking to a friend with frilly skirts and updos or peacefully taking a nap. Lord Ackerman would be busy with whatever it was that needed his financial attention, Levi Ackerman would ideally be out of the house, visiting his eclectic friends from the military that you had only been acquainted to once or twice in the flesh, but felt as if you knew them beyond those times due to Levi’s stories over the years, given with a begrudging and small smile hidden under his cup of warm tea.

Your room is small, at the very end of a long corridor at the very top of the house, leaving your room’s ceiling to slant under the roof. it’s quiet the trek to get up there; two flights of stairs that were greeted with a groan after a long day and not enough sleep. The air is a little stuffy, but the windows wake you up right when you need them to in the mornings. You had taken the liberty to decorate your room how you saw fit, but everything ended up in their designated piles on the floors. The only furniture available was an old and creaky wooden desk along with it’s chair that would scuff up the floor every time you dragged it, and a single bed that you had draped with some warm sheets. you didn't have much time to decorate it and make it yours, but somewhere along the years, the must of the room mixed itself with the warmth of the outside breeze when you decided to open it, claiming it to be yours.

and it was. Like a signature left behind on a letter, your painting materials laid on the floor - canvases stacked on top of each other near your desk, paintbrushes being held together by a glass jar that was once clear but was now painted with accidental streaks of miscellaneous coloured paints, an old and stained rag. the supplies that would usually be expensive considering the part of town you were in, but due to your personal connections were now cheaper and more affordable than you had considered them to be.

every week, you'd work on a new painting. a new landscape, maybe, or sometimes it would be one of the sketches in your sketchbook that would materialise on your canvas with full colour, taking days to dry. once they were finished, you'd haul the canvas with your pen-name on the bottom right corner, scribbled out in stark black oil paint and your thumb-print, to your...dealer? you called her as much. you did not know much about her life, despite knowing her since when you first stepped foot in this town, a scared but hopeful fifteen year old caught the eyes of multiple onlookers, but she helped you, if only a little, to get up on your feet. enough to look after yourself. she'd only appear when you'd needed to sell your art.

her name was Ymir. that is all of the information you had of her. you hadn't known where she'd come from, whether she, too, was under some kind of disguise or was pretending to be someone else entirely. she'd take your canvas, careful on her grip, give it a look-over and raise her brows in acknowledgement, handing you a bag of money. it was nothing much, just enough for you to get your painting supplies for the next project, but it gave you a sense of purpose and stability after living under someone else's roof for so long.

humming a tune you had heard in the streets the other night, you begin to work. your subject - the cat from last night - gets painted on with strokes of brown paint as it's under layer, as you sketch out the background with the same colour, mixing and dipping your paintbrush as if it's second nature. you try not to think too much about the preparations you'd have to be an active part of in the near future, relishing these few moments you'd have to yourself before something close to hell breaks loose in the Ackerman household.

Mikasa's father had a knack for perfectionism. everything has to be kept well, nothing should be left askew - the band should be booked and the queue of music should be made before all else, followed by the booking of the local florist, then the modiste, the cooks...everything should have to be perfect in order to please him. you had been a part of these preparations around five times now, when occasion called for it. the house would be full of guests you barely knew the names of, names you could barely get acquainted to before you'd be whisked away to serve something you could barely pronounce. you tried not to think about the fact that this could very well be the last time you ever are a part of a preparation as such; with Mikasa getting married, Lord Ackerman would have no real use for you. you'd be suspended, yet again, finding a place to live, a purpose to fill.

no, you would not think about it. as much as you enjoyed the prospect of freedom, you more so dreaded the uncertainty of it, the fact that you would not be able to face the turbulence this time.

in all honesty, you were sure that if Mikasa hadn't found you, you'd be done for. the guilt of leaving would be far too much for you to handle, but you could not go back should you even want to. not so much guilt, but more shame.

Taking one day at a time had taken a toll on you. The comfort of a routine was much needed after you entered the Ackerman household, albeit a little boring, you forced yourself to view it as a novelty. And then he came along, taking your nights and making them his own. He’s trapped himself as your muse, with no way out, locked himself in without a key. You weren’t particularly searching for him, as you stumbled into his life. it seemed that you’d met everyone important to you by stumbling, crashing and searching for them but having found them regardless.

You could not forget it even if you wanted to; how his sketchbook, wrapped in what you assumed was expensive and rare leather, went flying away from his hand. How he’d grumbled at first, stubbornly accepting your whispered and rushed apologies and walked along the empty path with long strides, only to realise that you were following him. You didn’t mean to, of course, it only happened to be a coincidence that this path happened to be your only solace for the past two months. It was almost always empty, save for the rare visitors with their smoking pipes, speeding and secretive teenage boys on their bicycles. Some days you would sit there to simply observe how everyone else dealt with their own large but little lives under the light of the street lamp. Other days, you would sketch out your observations, listening to the sounds of twigs snapping and heavy boots walking on the path.

But when he - you could not keep calling him that - walked the same direction as you, you couldn’t control your curiosity.

Your muse (you should call him this only in your mind) was a man of very few words. At least, he was at first. Coincidences lead the pair of you to share the same bench and sketch the same scenery - a parked bicycle in front of some stairs to a small institution. Your guess was that it was a school, and someone had forgotten their transportation near the gate. Your muse seemed to be drawing the same, and you tried not to peek into his page too much, but you wandering eyes had failed you. He hadn’t noticed, thankfully, which allowed your mind to wander farther than your eyes. You weren’t that much of a curious creature by nature, but this man’s thick, long coat, boots that covered up half his legs, a collar and hat that concealed most of his features and hair – he had to hide himself, which allowed your imagination – the one that had become your only home for your nineteen years of short life – to create stories beyond your words.

He cleared his throat. “I can feel your impertinent staring.”

Your eyes turn back to your half-completed sketch, fingers readjusting the pencil in between them. “I can feel the secrets you hide.” You would not be this rude in any other context. You knew of your shackled place in society and speaking out of line to anyone would be considered more than a heinous crime. But this situation; one where both of your identities were sealed and unknown, where the uncertainty of seeing him the next night was higher, you could.

There was a pause in his movements after your statement. his pencil stopped scratching on the smooth paper, reminding your mind that yet again, he possessed wealth or power. Or perhaps both.

He breathed out an amused laugh. “you’re observant.”

“and you’re silent.”

Another pause.

“you prefer me to talk?” he’d asked. He’s amused, again, as you looked at his side profile. He has a distinguished nose, you had noted, but none of his other facial features are visible due to his thick coat collar.

“I prefer to engage in polite conversation.” You had smiled. You had a guess to where this confidence is coming from, blaming everything on the excessive amount of sugar you had consumed before mounting your horse.

This time, he chuckles. “in what world do you think you have been polite?”

“this one.”

“very well.” He looked at you. His eyes are perfectly brown. “how have you been, o’ kind lady?”

“perfectly alright, my grace.” You say, the respect rolling off your tongue as habit. He had stiffened beside you after hearing it.

Maybe the entire reason your muse interacted with you was because of the sole fact that you were being…annoying, a loud handful that would usually be under control in the daylight, under the gaze of several too-important shadows. But it was night time, and there was no room for those shadows to exist, no room for the performance and the masks to be kept perfectly on your faces, allowing there to be a perfect view of the other’s face despite the lack of light.

Two months was all it took for you to make a friend, albeit without a name. his sometimes scratchy beard, hesitant scribbling, keen, beautiful eyes had become more familiar than your own reflection.

-

Lord Ackerman had called for the best of maidens and help he could gather to host a prestigious ball, one that stood up to the Ackerman name. heeding his criticisms and temper, you guide the new help to remain perfect under sharp eyes.

In all honesty, you needed this. There were more people in the large and empty house, and the attic no longer felt as cold as they used to with the voices that tried to hush themselves. You smiled to yourself as the girls – Mina and Marlene, they had told you with a wide smile and shaking hands – asked you if what they were doing seemed right. A plate of assorted pastries and finger foods sat prettily on a plate, ready to be whisked away to Lord Ackerman for his approval. a day before the ball and the head of the house refused to not triple check every little detail, noting down every possibility and every outcome of said possibility, warning you and Mr. Berner and the others that, “if even one leaf on even one bouquet is not in place, it will be your livelihood that will be accosted. Not mine.”

“I wonder how you can even breathe in such conditions. If I were you I would’ve stuffed my head under a pillow until I stopped breathing. And this is coming from the only modiste in this dreaded town.” Hitch whispers to you, handing you the gown that Mikasa would wear next evening, holding it with utmost care so as to avoid wrinkles. You breathe out a laugh at her dramatics.

“it’s not all bad. I enjoy the hustle-bustle.”

She rolls her eyes. “you’d be the first. Leave it to you to view the glass as half-full.”

You shake your head. “it’s not that. I simply find comfort in a small crowd. More than I find comfort in a large house with isolated inhabitants.”

“you should attend more of the parties that I go to. I’ve heard-“ she whispers, leaning in closer to you. “I heard that Reiner Braun was in the last one. Didn’t see the man, though. What a shame. I’ve heard tales about his…activities.” She says. You laugh again, an unladylike noise, but you do not care. Nobody is around to witness as the two of you shamelessly gossip. It is not often you meet her, not as often as you meet your muse, at least, but you meet her occasionally, bumping into her at the towns square while she does her hectic shoppings or to accompany Mikasa to her boutique. Mikasa simply witnesses as Hitch talks, hurriedly at first, then easing into Mikasa’s quiet and reserved smiles at some of Hitch’s most odd jokes and observations.

“and? What is new with you?” she asks after you don’t further her conversation. You have too much on your mind to answer her, but you wave an idle hand in front of your face and shrug. “not much,” you tell her. Hitch is too observant, much like you, to lie to, which is your first mistake.

“oh, come on. You are my friend. I know you better than this. You’re lying to me, it’s clear.”

“it’s not…much,” you say. Your second mistake.

Her brows shoot up to her forehead as a smirk etches itself onto her face. “oh? What is it? Someone found out about your secret identity?” she asks. Hitch was one of the only two people who knew about your financial and artistic transactions between the prude upper class that accepted nothing but the best and meaningless.

Business women had to hold each other’s secrets dear to their chests.  

You shake your head. “it is nothing, really-“

“have you met someone?” she asks. you hesitate before shaking your head this time. Your third mistake.

Three strikes. She squeals, going in to wrap her arms around you, but realising she cannot due to the precious fabric in your arms.

“oh, come on, tell me! Is it man? a woman? You know I do not judge. Lord knows Ymir has been engaging with a lady – she refuses to name who, but never shuts up about her.” She rambles, not letting you get a word in. when she finally breathes in with a gasp of air, you find your entrance to clear up her misunderstanding.

“it’s not anyone special, really, you’re making it far too big of a deal. It is simply a friend.” You explain, laughing nervously at the end of your statement. she looks at you knowingly.

“he’s-“ you start, but you’re immediately cut off by hitch’s “aha! So it is a he.”

You sigh with a smile. You had forgotten how…engaging conversations with her usually went.

“I barely know his name.” you clear your throat, leaning in much like she had before, lowering your voice to a hush despite the fact that the basement was empty save for the rare dust mites, your whispers echoing throughout the hall that contained racks of wine that was to be served to the guests the next night. It smelled much like the attic, a little more musky and mossy, if anything, with hints of leftover detergent that contained saffron and a little lemongrass from earlier this morning. The garments had already been hung out to dry in the field, thankfully, allowing you these little moments of talking with your friend before being swept up in chores yet again.

“I’ve been sneaking out these past few months-“ “months? You’re secretive aren’t you?” “just a little. Any how, I’ve been sneaking out for… creative purposes. I go out to this path that leads outside Rose.” “the one that leads to Singhansina?” you nod to her question with a slight smile. She matches your expression. You continue. “yes. That one. There are a lot of tradesmen there, and they travel and take breaks into the night. They make for interesting subjects.”

“is this person of yours one of them?” she asks, leaning in even further.

You shrug, “I do not know. I bumped into him while looking for a subject to draw for that night. Honestly, I do not wish to know his name. I know him more than I know Mikasa, in some ways. But I do not know his name. he is merely a friend, Hitch, really. I do not feel much other than platonic affection towards him.” You tell her, laying your left idle hand on her shoulder convincingly.

She looked at you suspiciously. “better than Mikasa?”

You nod, smiling. “better than Mikasa.”

“and are you sure he’s being truthful with you?” she asks. her face holds an expression of concern, the glint in her eye that was present before having diminished due to her worry for you.

You pause. You hadn’t given it much of thought, how honest your muse was with you. you had simply assumed he was because you were. But you were honest with him because of your feelings of comfort under a guise.

What if he was lying about everything he was telling you? you might’ve thought you were gaining a good friend who cared for you even if it was for a couple of hours every other night, but what if he was simply toying with you precisely because of the same reason as you? under the same guise that you had used as an excused to be honest to him?

Hitch copies your stance as she places her own hand on your shoulder, warm as her thumb rubs circles into your sleeve. “I know you think of him as a friend. Maybe he does too. But if I were him, I would really have no reason to be honest.” She says. You suppose she is right. This stranger – that’s all he is, at the end of the day. A stranger that doesn’t owe you a single penny or a single thought in his mind that is not as wandering as yours.

You sigh. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“but, then again, don’t let my words be a judge of his character. I’ve never me the man. if you trust him, then I trust your judgement of him.”

The conversation with Hitch is soon washed away from your mind as you babble on to Mikasa about what Hitch had informed you, not mentioning your mention of your muse. You told her about the parties Hitch had attended, about Reiner Braun and his companion that was far taller and more shy than him, Mr Hoover, who seemed to catch the modiste’s eye as she told you, in excrutiating detail, how she tried to flirt with him and his flustered gaze. How she went home with a completely different young man instead, one that seemed to be the perfect blend of sweet and stubborn. You narrated your friends’ tales to Mikasa while combing out the tangles in her hair after her shower.

“really? Who was that man?” she asks, every bit intrigued. She might not be one to talk in front of other people, but here, with the door shut and your fingers working their magic over her scalp, she let down her guard, talking, laughing, being a girl with you.

You laugh, “something from the letter ‘M’, if I’m not wrong. She doesn’t remember herself, she told me. She’d seen him at enough gatherings to know his face and admire it. She only acted on it last week.”

“do you think she’ll see him again? What will she even say?”

You shrug, and Mikasa watched you through the reflection in her mirror as your stand behind her. “I don’t know.”

She hums. “what would you have done?” she asks, her eyes glistening as a small smirk set on her face.

You smile your own little one, “probably seek him out in the next event. Glance at him throughout the night, slowly make my way towards him and then,” you lean down towards her ear, matching her gaze through the mirror, “hey.” You say. Mikasa laughs as she squirms away, your breath tickling her neck.

You laugh as well. “that is not what you would do,” she says, rolling her eyes with a smile, still laughing.

“yes, I would! Why not?”

“because,” she says, shrugging, matching your eyes through the mirror yet again. “you’re a hopeless romantic. You would…exchange looks with him from afar, wait for him to make his move so you can be sure he likes you as well, and then you’d say hey,” she says, imitating your tone from before, laughing with a hand covering her mouth. You gasp in faux offense, laying a hand over your chest, acting hurt.

“how dare you be so accurate?”

Mikasa laughs, her smile turning soft.

“I know you too well,” she says your name affectionately.

“unfortunately, you do.”

She pauses, opening and closing her mouth. You know her just as well as she knows you to know that she wants something of you. you tilt your head as you look at her again through the mirrors shiny, smooth surface.

“what’s wrong?” you ask.

Her gloved hands fidget on her lap. You were sure if they weren’t gloved, the skin of her hands would be red and raw with how much fidgeting she does throughout the day. She shakes her head, looking down at her lap.

You knew her well enough to also know how to get her to answer.

You start with her hair again, raking your fingers through it gently. Your fingers trace light patterns on her scalp as she closes her eyes. The one thing you learnt well from your mother – how to render anyone speechless. You’d seen her, like a seasoned artist perfected in her craft, as she did the same as you were doing on your father’s and your brother’s hair, making the latter spill all his heavily kept secrets to her ears that were only ever gentle to him. 

And it does the same to Mikasa now, too, as she sucks in a breath and whispers out what was weighing her down only a few moments prior.

“come to the ball with me.” She says. Your hands stop in their tracks. She continues, sitting up straighter, her eyes still closed as if dreading your expression. You look at her with patience and understanding even if she doesn’t see it. “not as my handmaiden. As a member of higher society, as my friend. Just this once.” She says, pleads, really.

Your brows pinch together in worry, concern flowing in your head. You breathe in, preparing to ask her, but she doesn’t let you speak. She knows you well, too, she proves, by opening her eyes and turning her body towards you and away from the mirror perched on her vanity that was twice the size of your desk in the attic.

“I’ve already asked my father. He was…himself, at first, but… well, I told him I was not to attend if you were not there.” She says. You blink at her, starting to shake your head. How could you? facing all of these important people would be too much. How would you even conduct yourself? You knew how the night would go already, you knew how you’d somehow end up saying the wrong things to the wrong people, or somehow be obnoxious and loud. You’d be on thin ice the whole of the night and-

“please? I… I’ll need you. you’ve been my only friend for so many dreadful years. You’ve been my only thread of sanity. Just one night, please.” She asks.

Its rare to see her like this. The last time she had ever asked of anything from you was on her last birthday, where she had asked you to take her to town and show her your favourite places to visit. You had done so, and she had held up her part of the vow as well – to not ask for it ever again. It had been dangerous enough that you were sneaking her out but it would be even more so dangerous if anyone were to find out about it.

But you remembered how she had smiled after tasting your favourite ice-cream, how a slight blush covered her cheeks as she hummed in delight. You’d never forget that day and you knew she would never dare to either.

You sigh, a tired smile resting on your lips. “of course, mika.” You say, using her rare nickname with warmth despite the cold and harsh nerves pooling into your veins. “of course I would.”

--

It seemed like a charade, really. How everyone seemed to be in frills and feathers and the purest of silks and still keep a polite smile on their face, taking small and practiced bites of the pastries that had been made with the utmost perfection by Mr. Berner. The men with their hands folded neatly behind their backs and the women with their hands in front of their mouths, covering it as they laughed to jokes you were sure weren’t all that amusing.

You were not used to this. You had never been one of the people in the hall, used to being the outside looking in rather than the other way around. You were not used to wearing such shoes, wearing such a dress, having your hair pinned up in this manner as you shifted your weight from one foot to another, breathing in and out slowly as Mikasa is forced to make the same conversation with the fifth party of strangers tonight – a man that was far too old to be coddled by his mother as he was.

“oh, but he is such a nice boy, my Thomas. Really, if I were you, Miss, I would snatch up the opportunity to wed him instead!” the lady says, bursting out laughing afterwards. Mikasa forces a slight laugh that is more of a grimace than anything, but nobody other than you seems to notice. The young man in question seems to blush and duck his head, relaying the embarrassment his mother should have had herself for uttering such a statement.

The mother talks prudely and loudly for a few more dreadful minutes, leaving you and Mikasa alone to talk about the exchange before her mother were to find her and drag her to yet another family. Mikasa takes a sip of her drink – clear white wine, the light reflecting off of the surface of the flute beautifully. You make a note to paint it if you ever have the time and resources.

Mikasa sighs. You shoot her an apologetic look before doing the one thing you know how to do best – diverting her attention and lightening the mood briefly. “she was an… interesting character. Do you believe her to be in love with her son?”

Mikasa laughs, and much like the other young ladies, covers her smile with her hand. You continue, imitating the lady you were sure had the power to very well execute you should she hear you speak of her in such a manner, but all you care about in the moment is to make Mikasa smile, to keep her smiling.

Despite your cut off from education at a young age, you were wise. As your muse had said on that first night, you were observant. You were keen enough to see – while sweeping the hall time and again with your eyes – Lord Ackerman and his distant cousin glancing at you and your best friend, making sure she was in good spirits. Lord Ackerman, somehow and maybe a little too late, had recognized your value tonight. To keep his daughter happy above all else. But where you were keeping mikasa’s spirits high due to reasons completely selfless and concerned, he did it with his own satisfaction in mind. To keep Mikasa well enough so she wouldn’t run out of patience to engage in civil conversation before the night ended, to keep the importance of his name intact.

“it was bordering on incestual relations. I sure do hope she doesn’t have a daughter.” You say. You’re well aware of the fact that you’re gossiping now, but it puts a smile on Mikasa’s painted face.

“who’s caught your eye from here?” she asks, entertaining the thought of you being far more important than you are. You hum, giving into her thoughts, glancing around.

Some faces are unrecognizable. Men with well combed hair and beardless faces, all gracing the same charming smiles. The women were always gorgeous; you admired them every event that you had to host in this house, admired how they kept themselves orderly and how pretty their smiles were. If you were in a sour mood, you’d indulge yourself in a little unfair jealousy, knowing that it wasn’t their fault that they were graced with good looks and wealth and maybe a prosperous life as well.

You keep looking. Pearly white teeth, black hair. A man wears monocles, another has a full mustache over his top lip and clean shaven on his jaws and cheeks. A young boy covering his mouth with a fist as he laughed with a young woman, another one with pure blonde hair, and then-

Ah.

His beard was shaven. You notice that first, then everything else. He’s dawning a dark red suit with accessories to compliment it, no longer wearing that thick black coat he usually wear with the collar that reaches the high part of his cheekbones. His lips are pressed into a thin line and you know him well enough – or, you assume you know him well enough – to know that he is unhappy here. You notice his brows next, thin, pinched. His jaw is clenched.

And his eyes. Hazel under the well-lit ceremony, and it’s a stark contrast to when you see him in far dimmer lighting, but just as beautiful. It would be more artistic to point out the most specific shades of his eyes, of its amber hues and its mossier specks, but it would be friendlier to point out that they were his. They were your muse’s eyes, no doubt about it, and his hair – it was ashy blonde and not dark brown as you had presumed – was slicked back with only a few strands grazing his forehead.

An artist would point out that he was beautiful. His form, his power, stride. A friend, as you were, would point out that he was himself. His shoulders were no longer relaxed. his hand twitched from his sides irritably.

His nod as he greeted the host was short and curt and allowed no input.

Just as Lord Ackerman liked.

You breathed in, looking back at Mikasa and her face, her beautiful, shining face with worlds in her eyes and worthiness in her smile, and you cleared your throat, shaking your head, taking a sip – the last one – from your flute of champagne that was far too expensive for your taste, gulping down the feeling of estrangement from this crowd, from this world. You smiled at her.

“no one. I’d much prefer an artist, or a poet, or someone who writes.”

She shakes her head with a smile. “hopeless romantic,”

She knew you well. But not well enough.

“Mikasa, there you are. Come along, we have someone we need you to greet.” Mikasa’s mother says, pulling on the former’s elbow. Mikasa merely glances at her mother, looking at you for reassurance. You hook your arm with her free one, ignoring the glance Lady Ackerman throws your way, smiling at Mikasa as her mother leads the two of you through the crowd. You glance at your feet to avoid stepping on the other’s and your own.

You realise, too late, that your feet are pointing towards a pair of shiny black boots, buckled tightly. You look up to meet your eyes with him.

He’s already looking at you. you breathe. In and then out, inhale after exhale.

He does the same, and a friend as you assumed you were, would point out that he was as overcome as you were. His eyes squinted and his eyebrows lifted only slightly as if he were trained to be kept under a guise.

So were you.

“this is Viscount Kirstein. He only recently stepped foot in Rose.” Lord Ackerman says. Mikasa, as practiced, bows to him, making your muse – Kirstein – blink back at her, nodding with a gulp and another clench of his jaw.

“yes, only recently. About two months I’d say? Right, Jean?” you hadn’t noticed him, but his companion said from the right of him, of Jean.

With dark brown hair parted in the middle and freckles dotted all over his slightly tanned face, he looked quiet charming. Your muse – Jean. Jean Kirstein, a Viscount – nodded to his question, clearing his throat and saying, “yes. Two months.”

His voice would be the same if there weren’t an edge to it, and people would have noticed if they were close to him. You did.

“and this is my daughter, Mikasa.” Lord Ackerman speaks, but it seems far away from you as Levi Ackerman clears his throat from you left, capturing your attention.  

His head nods towards his general left, pointing slightly, deliberately and subtley for you to leave. Jean catches all of it, and maybe it the part of being an artist to observe and take note of, but you pretend not to notice it as you make your way towards the glass doors, excusing yourself from the crowds, opening the doors to reveal sweet, soft night air.

You breathe. In and then out, inhale after exhale.

You were right. You did not belong here, and your estrangement in this society seemed to echo tenfold after seeing him again, under light but somehow more masked than he was the first night you’d met.

But then again, so were you, dressed in garments that were never yours, with a face painted with pigments you’d much prefer to transfer onto a canvas.

You did not belong here. but where would you belong? Where would your mask find its home? When would your discomfort leave?

It happens to fast. You’re fifteen, running away from the only house you’ve ever known despite it never being kind to you.

And then, suddenly, somehow, you’re nineteen, hiding away in the garden of yet another house that you would not be welcomed in after time passes.

You are nineteen and lonely, and maybe that will always be your story. Maybe you were foolish to think that you would be able to change it.

You are nineteen. Foolish and lonely and without a home.

✩‧₊˚☾

[keischreiber]

I dunno. I see rare pair Hitch x Reiner and... I kinda like it. Maybe it's because I wanna see Hitch eat her words when he called Reiner Mr. Boring when Annie was looking over the letter Reiner sent her.

But at the same time, given the opportunity, I feel like it'd work.

[porgatino]

This is what happened (crossposted from my twt )

[foxchainships]

Request for anonymous

If you want me to draw your favorite ship, send over a DM :)

[eueuphoriaz]

Couples and how they interact with each other in AOT.

Why do I feel that Levihan is the most wholesome relationship in the entire AOT story? Their interactions are subtly being mirrored in other romantic relationships in the story, at least romantically as seen by the characters in AOT.

So below are the pairs which I shortlisted. The criteria is that their interactions/ relationships have been teased or expressed by the characters in AOT as romantic. They may not be confirmed by Isayama himself but at least suspected by the AOT characters to be so. Eren x Mikasa is omitted because they are basically Levihan's parallel.

Of course Levihan lens is on.

I only selected 1 parallel between these pairs and Levihan because there are too many if I compile all. But do share your thoughts and observations too.

Sasha x Niccolo- first meeting

How Sasha and Hange complimented their guys' strengths, their enthusiasm and expressive emotions. How Levi and Niccolo got shocked by this and Niccolo had a blush on his face, while emotionally-constipated Levi can only respond with "................... Thanks..........."

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

Ymir x Historia - Childhood history and identity

Did Levi hide everything about his past to Hange? The fact that Hange knew he lived with Kenny (Nifa thought it was a joke, Kenny was even thought to be an urban legend), and Levi telling her firsthand, about him knowing Kenny's last name, shows the depth of personal things they share among each other.

Of course Yumihisu has much more parallels to Levihan. But I will just choose this one because it is unique to them.

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

Armin x Annie - where are they?

Yap, always need to ask for the nerdy ones whenever they can to make sure that they are ok.

Same for Ymir and Historia too

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

Falco x Gabi - Shut it!

Sometimes you just got to step in and stop your overly-energised girlfriend from getting overboard. And not forgetting that little sibling skit Gabi and Falco put up in front of Sasha's father. They must have learnt a thing or two about skits from Levi and Hange.

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

Franz x Hannah - He's not dead

Of course they will never give up just like that. And we got to appreciate the couple that is so overlooked because both of them basically died even before the Survey Corp made their official appearance.

I am pretty sure that Hange did the same to Levi after she escaped.

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

Marlowe x Hitch - Dont go

When Marlowe asked Connie and Sasha why would Hitch stop him, they basically just teased him and Hitch. But poor Marlowe is born with the Scouts genes down to his DNA to realise what they are implying.

And we have Levi's "行かないで〜" from the magazine editor, which basically said that Levi's last words to Hange would have been "Dont go". If only Hange didnt speak first.

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

That's why Levihan is so wholesome. It is everywhere and is there.

[ellieluvr420]

We meet again, darling pt.4 (detective Abby Anderson x criminal reader)

Synopsis: Abby Anderson is a skilled detective that's never let a criminal escape her grasp, until you. You've infiltrated every part of her life and she still can't get you. As she grows more and more intrigued by you she finds herself descending further into darkness until there's no way back. She takes your hand and follows you as if your presence is the only thing giving her life knowing that you are the most dangerous thing for her. Her life will never be hers again and she will stop at nothing to keep following you down your path of corruption.

Smut... kinda, MDNI please xxxx

Abby jolts awake at the sound of her phone ringing. She had struggled to fall asleep earlier that night just like she had most nights since Dan. His face haunted her sleep. Sometimes it was memories from her childhood where he looked happy and carefree as they did when they were kids but sometimes his face was pale and sweaty and twisted up in pain, both physical and emotional. No matter what the dream was it always ended the same: Abby stabbing him and him choking on his own blood while he asked why? How could she do this? Every night she'd wake up in a cold sweat, hyperventilating with tears threatening to spill over her cheeks. But tonight, she didn't. She woke because her phone rang. Because you rang.

Abby looks at the number only to see its unknown and she sighs already knowing who it is.

"Do you know what time it is?" Her voice was groggy and deep from sleep and your breath hitched at the sound of her disgruntled words.

"No, isn't it 2pm?"

Abby can practically hear the grin through the phone and she sighs even harder this time.

"You're not funny."

"Yes I am don't lie, that's a sin"

"Your whole life is a sin."

"Jeez someone's grumpy."

"You wake me up at.." Abby takes the phone from her ear to look at the time. "THREE AM?? Have you lost your mind?"

"Yes, years ago."

"Do you enjoy being the biggest pain in my ass? Is that why you called... at 3am?

"Yes and kind of. I'm calling because I've got everything set up for you to start your part of the plan, I think we should give it a name I was thinking: Mission take over, what do you think?" Abby rolls her eyes and lays back down with the phone still at her ear.

"No, that's awful. What about.... Mission call me at 3am again and I'll kick your ass?"

"I'd like to see you try. You don't have a good track record."

"Hanging up now."

"Wait a minute, we're going to dinner tonight. Be ready 8pm sharp and dress nice."

"Anyone ever told you you're bossy?"

"Everyday of my life. It's part of my charm. Okay that was all I wanted to tell you so get some rest sleeping beauty."

"You called me at 3am to tell me we're going to dinner?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I really don't like you."

"Aw yes you do. Goodnight sunshine!" You do a loud kiss through the phone and hear her sigh before she hangs up. You giggle and put your phone down as there's a knock at your office door.

"Come in."

Richter walks in with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He sits quietly and pours you both a glass.

"What's got you up at these hours?" You look at him with an unamused look.

"When am I not? And I could say the same for you."

"Fair point. I'm actually just about to head back to mine but I thought you'd want to know that Eddie rang."

You sigh and rub your forehead knowing that is never good.

"What now?"

"Cops bagged Marlow, apparently they've offered him a deal to talk."

"They always do. Do you think he will?"

"No I don't think he will, but..."

"Oh there's always a but."

"Eddie's worried, there's been more arrests recently, not all of them get charged but he's worried they're getting closer. We've went under the radar for so long now, is our luck running out?"

"It's not luck Johnny for fuck's sake. We're smart and we're careful. This. This is a rat. Come on I'll walk you out, I need to pay someone a visit."

Richter gives you a strange look but shrugs and starts walking as you follow him out.

Abby jolts awake for the second time tonight as she feels herself being shaken.

"AH WHAT THE FUCK!"

"Sorry, sorry. It's just me."

"You are fucking insane, how and why are you in my apartment at 4 in the fucking morning?"

"You have crap security we've been over this" You begin to pace at the foot of her bed. "I need a favour."

"A favour? You really think you're in a place to be asking for favours right now."

"Hey, when I came in it looked like you were having a really bad dream so er your welcome for waking you up from that. Please just listen to me this is serious." You stop and look her dead in the eyes as you say this and for the first time you notice she's not wearing anything on her top half. You can see the protrusion of her collarbones and the definition of her muscles and you don't even realise you've been ogling her until you meet her unimpressed eyes. Although she's gracious enough to not mention it, you gulp as you know you've been caught.

"Right. Well, um, I think there's a rat. Lower down of course but clearly high up enough to know a good amount about the structure of my business. More of my men have been getting arrested and some of them are getting charged. I need you to find out who the rat is so I can deal with them. Abby this is so important, I need you to find out today or this could fuck up mission: take over."

"Are you actually going to start calling it that?"

"Abby!"

"Jeez. Sorry, I will find out what's going on today."

"Oh thank god." You sit down on the bed next to her and put a hand on her strong thigh and squeeze. "Thank you, sorry for scaring the shit out of you... and waking you up... twice." You smile at her and she smiles back.

"It's okay I guess, only you could get away with this shit."

"Oh yeah?" You tilt your head and smirk at her. "Am I special?" You lean in close so your faces are centimetres apart. Abby brings a hand to your cheek and pulls you closer so your noses are practically touching. She leans in until your lips are touching.

"Yeah. You are." She lunges forward and presses her lips to yours in a hungry and desperate kiss. The shock you feel at her actions immediately subsides as want takes over. You feel her tongue licking at your lower lip, begging to be let in. You can't help but feel the need to tease so you go to pull away until her other hand finds its place on the back of your head keeping you firmly in place. She bites down on your lower lip and as you gasp she takes this as her opportunity to slip her tongue into your mouth. You feel completely out of control as you moan into her mouth. She pulls away for a second to raise her eyebrows at the noise you let out.

"Shut. Up." You grab her face and immediately start kissing her. Harder and more passionately this time. You straddle her hips and her hands immediately find their places on your hips squeezing so hard you expect bruises to form. You pull away from her lips and start kissing down her jaw and neck. You hear Abby almost growl and you feel her strong hands pull you away from her. You frown until you notice her hands pulling at your t-shirt. You help her by lifting your arms up and she throws the t-shirt somewhere on the floor of her room. You realise you didn't have a bra on when you see her eyeing your boobs hungrily. She looks up at you and down at them again. She grabs them and squishes them together and then kisses each nipple, she looks up with her face still resting on your chest and the sight is enough to make you cum right there and then. She gets a mischievous grin on her face.

"You have a great rack."

"Oh you just had to ruin the moment." You say giggling as you push her face away from you. She grabs you and pulls you down with her so you're laying on top of her.

"Hey I mean it."

"I will get up and leave right now." She wraps her arms tightly around your waist so there is absolutely no space between you two. "No you won't."

"Oh whatever." You go back to kissing her and her hands go back to your hips as she starts rocking you atop her. You groan into her mouth and you feel her smile into the kiss. She flips you both over and starts kissing down your neck and your chest until she reaches your left nipple. She sucks it into her mouth while making dead eye contact with you. You gasp as she pinches the right nipple and immediately swaps her ministrations. Once she's paid both nipples sufficient attention she kisses down your stomach and licks a strip back up and finishes it off with a kiss between your breasts. She shuffles down the bed and wraps her fingers round the band of your bottoms.

"Can I take these off?"

"Obviously."

She rips them down and throws them also onto the floor. She goes to kiss the hem of your underwear but stops when you thread your fingers through her soft hair.

"Wait. Come here."

"Yes boss." You giggle as she crawls back up toward your face and pull her into a messy kiss. You palm her perky breasts and roll her pink nipples between your fingers, she hisses.

"Aw is someone sensitive?" You pout at her and she smirks at you as she grabs your cheeks and squishes them together as she presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

"You are so much cuter when you don't talk." She squishes your cheeks with each word she says and then leans down and bites at your neck hard enough you're sure there will be a bite mark.

"I hate you so much." She looks at you with raised eyebrows as she places a hand over your mouth firmly.

"No you don't." She moves back down your body and takes the hem of your underwear between her teeth as she slides the underwear down your thighs, You instinctively clamp your legs shut as you're exposed in front of her but she grabs one of your thighs and pushes it down flush to the bed.

"uh uh uh, come on darling, no hiding now." She echoes your words from your conversation on the balcony with a wicked grin on her face. You roll your eyes and groan into her hand. She peppers kisses and leaves bruises all over your thighs until your bite her hand.

"Oh someone's impatient aren't they?" She leans down and licks a stripe from your hole to your clit moaning as she tastes you on her tongue. She sucks your clit into her mouth for a second and then presses a quick kiss to it before she crawls back up to be face to face with you. She grabs your neck, gentler than the other times she's choked you, her intentions different this time and kisses you hungrily so you can taste yourself on her tongue. You both kiss until you have to pull away to gasp for breath and she sits up giving you the most hot look you've ever seen as she wipes her mouth with her thumb. She leans back down and presses her thumb over your lips and you happily take it into your mouth and suck. She moans as she feels your tongue swirling around her thumb and sucking, hard. She pulls it out with a pop and smears the spit over your lips and chin. She bites her lip and flashes a devilish grin before she begins to get up and pull her top off the ground as she puts it on over her head.

"What are you doing?"

"That's what you get for waking me up in the middle of the night... twice." She goes to walk out the room but turns back and looks at you. "And for shooting me." As she walks out of the room you throw your head back in frustration and begin trailing your hand down your body to your heat. Abby appears back in the doorway with two bottles of water and an unimpressed look on her face. She pulls you by your foot to the end of the bed and brings her face inches to yours.

"Don't even think about it."

She drops a bottle of water onto the bed for you and you throw yourself back in frustration as you hear Abby laugh as she walks away.

"Fucker."

psa: sorry sorry i had to do it, going back and editing these now i've decided to actually post has been fun. Hope you enjoyed whoever has made it this far and more action is coming i promise, in more ways than one... ;). New chapters coming soon because i love this story and Abby is perf <3 okay byeeee

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: May 16, 2024

In his memoir Hitch-22, Christopher Hitchens considered “why it is that anti-Semitism is so tenacious and so protean and so enduring”. Many of us in the west have grown complacent, assuming that the horrors of the Holocaust would prevent this ancient prejudice from re-emerging. But as the conflict between Israel and Hamas escalates, few of us can be in any doubt that antisemitism has once again goose-stepped into the spotlight.

Of course, criticism of the Israeli government and its military strategy is entirely legitimate. So too is our profound concern for the innocents of Gaza and the many thousands of non-combatants who are losing their lives. But there is no denying the explicit anti-Jewish hatred that has accompanied these discussions in certain quarters. Criticise Israel all you like, but don’t try to tell me that Monday night’s daubing of the Shoah memorial in Paris with handprints of red paint was anything other than antisemitic.

Social media has opened our eyes to the prevalence of such sentiments. The other day I posted a link to my Substack piece about the Eurovision Song Contest on that hellsite now known as X. My focus in the article was on the narcissism of the “non-binary” performers, but one feminist activist decided to make it all about Israel. Underneath my post, she added an image of Eden Golan, the Israeli entry to the competition, with bloodstains photoshopped onto her dress. She went on to dismiss the victims of the October 7 pogrom as “silly ravers” and to blame the massacre on the IDF. Whatever else one might say about such views, it is clearly evidence of a complete absence of basic humanity.

This is sadly not uncommon. Recently we have seen protesters openly supporting Hamas, or even praising its acts of barbarism. A new poll has found that 63% of students currently protesting at US universities have at least some sympathy for Hamas. There have been overtly antisemitic statements, and Jews have been harassed on campus. It has been reported that at Columbia University, one protester cried out “We are Hamas” while another shouted at a group of Jewish students: “The 7 October is about to be every fucking day for you. You ready?” These are the very people who have spent the last few years calling anyone who dissents even slightly from their worldview a “fascist”, and yet they are blind to actual fascism when it emerges within their own ranks.

All of this has taken me by surprise, which perhaps reveals the extent of my naivety. Antisemitism is nothing new, and has assumed myriad and outlandish forms over the centuries. Our own country has not been immune; Jews were deported from England in 1290, only to be readmitted in 1656. Before then, only those who had converted to Christianity were allowed to remain; specially, they were able to reside at the Domus Conversorum in London, established by Henry III in 1232. Anti-Jewish sentiments were reignited by a plot to poison Elizabeth I in 1594, which was blamed on her physician Roderigo Lopes, a Portuguese man of Jewish ancestry who was executed for treason. This is the context in which the forced conversion of Shylock at the end of Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice ought to be understood.

Unpleasant myths about Jews have abounded throughout history, some of which still linger in Islamic regimes and the darker crannies of the internet where neo-Nazis gather to wallow in their bile. The poisoning of wells by Jews was thought to have initiated the Black Death epidemic in 1348. This notion was still pervasive by the time Christopher Marlowe wrote his play The Jew of Malta in 1589 (consider Barabas’s mass extermination of an entire convent of nuns by means of “a precious powder”, or his boastful claim: “Sometimes I go about and poison wells”).

The hate-filled fantasies didn’t end there. The seventeenth-century preacher Thomas Calvert speculated that male Jews menstruated and murdered Christian infants to replenish their blood. In a 1656 pamphlet addressing the question of readmission, the puritan polemicist William Prynne stated that “Jews almost every year crucify one child, to the injury and contumely of Jesus”.

Those who have been paying attention will have noticed new forms of these blood libels recurring online in recent months, with many activists claiming that Israel is specifically targeting children in the conflict. For whatever reason, many opponents of the war cannot resist veering into antisemitic tropes. Most examples are coming from those who identify as “left-wing” and “progressive”, which just goes to show how antisemitism is not specific to any one political mindset. Its tendency to rematerialise in unexpected guises means that we ought to be eternally vigilant. I had never been able to grasp how Holocaust denial could be so widespread in the face of such unequivocal evidence. But having heard so many denials of the October 7 massacre, including scepticism from prominent left-wing commentators over whether rapes actually took place, I can see that such revisionism is more common than I assumed.

The unique horror of the Holocaust shows us that human civilisation might at any point collapse into the abyss. In Anthony Burgess’s novel Earthly Powers, the narrator Ken Toomey witnesses the immediate aftermath at Buchenwald, what he describes at the “lowest point in human history”. His newfound sense of humankind’s capacity for evil leads him to conclude that we cannot possibly have been created by God. This is the essence of despair.

The novelist Mervyn Peake was one of the first to see Bergen-Belsen after its liberation by allied forces. He visited the camp in the role of a war artist, and what he saw there haunted him forever. His final novel Titus Alone is a fragmentary and bleak affair, a consequence partly of his degenerative illness, but also of his psychological need to reckon with the evil he had glimpsed. It appears in the novel in the form of the “factory”, a chilling place of shadows and death, where identical faces stare out of countless windows and macabre scientific experiments are conducted within its walls.

One of Peake’s sketches from Belsen depicts a young girl, looking directly at the artist as she lies dying from consumption.

As he drew the girl, Peake was overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness and self-reproach. In the final stanza of his poem “The Consumptive. Belsen, 1945”, he tried to make sense of his feelings:

Her agony slides through me: am I glass That grief can find no grip Save for a moment when the quivering lip And the coughing weaker than the broken wing That, fluttering, shakes the life from a small bird Caught me as in a nightmare? Nightmares pass; The image blurs and the quick razor-edge Of anger dulls, and pity dulls. O God, That grief so glibly slides! The little badge On either cheek was gathered from her blood: Those coughs were her last words. They had no weight Save that through them was made articulate Earth’s desolation on the alien bed. Though I be glass, it shall not be betrayed, That last weak cough of her small, trembling head.

As Peake sketches the girl he struggles with the sheer futility of it all. He is troubled that his pity is fleeting, that even in the moment he is too focused on his task and not on the human being who lies dying before him. But is this really a lack of empathy, or a natural human reaction to the knowledge that there is nothing he can do to remedy the cruelties of the world?

The evil of the Holocaust serves as a reminder of what can happen when fascism prevails. We cannot afford to be complacent while antisemitism is on the rise and supposed progressives are cheering on those who openly wish to eliminate an entire race of people. If nothing else, we should do our utmost to ensure that the lessons of history are not forgotten.

[cipheramnesia]

Last Call

Marlowe stepped the gap from the greatcrete tomb off northeast El Camino Cross, hitching up the heavy canvass on its shoulder over the way. Crystal weed had pushed loose some tooth deepways down and open-maw crete had met Marlowe under the first glimmer of the big rad. It'd hesitated less'n sip before creeping in. Bountiful haul, Marlowe leapt one crete boulder to other and walked its way over towards the big East Sink.

Neath the great crossings above, most all El Camino daybedded in the Big Sink, snug bugs safe from the big rad and the little rad over head til falls stars. Marlowe shaded its eyes while it walked, tint layover the many lensed glass. Big rad glittered the flakes in its bronze skin, warm and welcome. Its parents promised it the future, the world and the suns for that glitter, more than gold, so they said, next gen new ways, future of humanities and hopeful for the steam pacts.

Took a walkover ways to the east cross corner and those little crete walls half in the Big Sink, minuteswise enough to put the promises behind it. Sat looking deep dark, legs kicked over the edge and nextout the haul from the tombs. Good old metal, pre-cataclysm. Wires and miles of it, Marlowe figured. Old world plastics, pretty petty trades for sugar and spice. Marlow rubbed its hand through its short, tight curled hair. Trembles at the tips, stilled to hold its treasure. Tech of the ancients, full intact, no crack.

Altogether a couple shoe sizes, heavy bulk old metals, not like those soft sweet ores from the Big Sink. Faint sounds of the imps driving new roads clattered reverseways to its ears, hoots and jeers to beat back the fears. Part held together by wires - no, connected, click and clack, something like a flatout pistol with no trigger loosed up. Sidewired, loose - no, not broken, it still moves, thought Marlowe, twisting the thick wire on the side sunways and flat. Squares of plastic all glued up under another metal cover. Marlowe went from trembling to tensed, its fingers nimble known, same sharp hands built the backup arm on its back, spring and cranky but reliable. Much of the same hope laid on Marlowe's shoulders held there that mech arm.

Plastic glowed, metal squealed under Marlowe's fingers, it jumped, clutched tight the treasure, the living metal itself. It spoke the metal, the flat pistol shape in its hands, Marlowe lifted it to its ears and listed to the voice of the ancients, spoken like falling crystal:

"This is tower to caller, respond. … This is tower to caller, respond. … This is-"

"Heard," said Marlowe.

"This is tower. Please wait."

Eyed the flat shape to be some old comm, Marlowe heard a few but never firsthand marveled. Both ends had even slits, sound from one only.

"New user authorized. Confirm."

"Confirmed?" Marlowe waited a moment more.

"Received. Time and coordinates marked. New user, return to these coordinates and time stamp in one planet rotation cycle."

"What?" The snapping and whine had stopped. The comm was silent. "Speak up? I command the clouds to voice!" Nothing worked. Marlowe clocked the sun, popped the lock on its helper arm and x-marked the spot. The sun was young and the Sink was deep.

****

My name is Tower. I am 65 meters long, at my longest point. I have a 50 meter dish and my primary body is 21 meters wide.

I am alone.

I am 35,100 kilometers above the assignment. I have watched the sun of the assignment become two suns. I have watched the stars for 525,870,001 operational hours. I have performed my assigned task twice. My task has ceased to affect my assignment for the previous 2,093,640 operational hours.

At one time, there were twenty seven others like me. Now I am alone.

I count the visible stars for the one hundred and twentieth billion three hundred and seventeenth million eight hundred and ninety eight thousandth nine hundred and third time this operational minute.

I wonder if my operational cycle is beginning to decay. I am aware that my assignment does not include the capacity to wonder, or the concept of being alone.

I am not alone. I consider my eagerness to respond to the signal. Eagerness is not included in my assignment. "This is tower to caller…"

Some time passes. I wait for my assignment to return.

****

Down the Big Sink, few lit far between, Marlowe laddered downward, evercloser to the Impact Crews, groundbreaking ore and room and more. Parents said, hope, up, steamwise and surfacebound, chain wrapped it in future hopes. New gen, promised all, so it goes, with no hand in by Marlowe, only told to climb, ascend. And what joy its skilled hands wrought to life, the mecha and flow of El Camino, another heir to the pacts of Steam.

Marlowe downward climbed, hopes below, hands down reaching, dark seeking. It read the future in the petrol dark oil, lines of soft glimmer, next gen the dust beneath their toes. Marlowe made its way along fresh hewn tunnel, bottom floor, everyone off, newest rooms brought to life by the El Camino imps. It knocked gainst the rock and pale hands pushed aside canvas flap, glitter glow eyes met Marlowe's deep dark brown, thin lips from sharp teeth joined. Marlow slid its hands round this pale form, scattered with stiff bristle hair, near quills, swept sparse over blue white skin. Those same pale hands, pale arms, enfolded together, bodies pressed close and tongues found twined. Kissed deeper than the bottomless sink, hungrier than the big salt flats, brighter than the big rad, til parted only by the dawning breath.

"Juke," Marlowe said, leaned its head against his. "Missed you evermuch."

Juke smiled. His teeth as beautiful as the light reflecting inside his eyes. Not all next gen so surface bound as the caged hopes round Marlowe. Deep dark, low light living, Impact driving Juke, whose scent alone caused Marlowe's heart to punch its chest. "Wishing for you evermuch," he said. Teasing. "Even half a day overlong?"

"Even an hour," Marlowe added, squeezing Juke in its arms. "Even a minute overlong."

Black nails, talons from Juke's paper skin, wrapped Marlowe's hands, the nails scraping along its flecked skin with stone sounds. Marlow squeezed back, pressed itself closer. They together drew canvas curtains and bedsheets down and met desires with flesh and blood for some time, hours of the young and fragile world til they gasped air, bound by sweat and eyegaze locked.

"Missed you evermuch," said Juke.

"Everalways yours," said Marlowe. "And more to show and tell, future of signs to come." It reached out from the knotted sheets for its canvass sack, there to display the finds of the ancients for Juke, Juke the only future Marlowe held in hand. Plastic treasure and more, the comm and story of the tower. The promises yet to come. The sun moving overhead, far above the dark. Blankets wrapped round again, harsh drinks and distilled lichen, sweet words til sadly parted again.

[hilow-week]

Don’t miss your chance to tell us what you want to see for Hitchlowe Week 2023! The mod team will be closing the response NEXT WEEK on Halloween! Fill out the interest check and check out our carrd for more info.

[scuttling-claws]

question 6

hiding under a read more bc this is a hate post LOL

literally, hitchannie shippers ruined the whole thing for me. a bunch of them spent literal MONTHS harassing me for preferring a different hitch ship and honestly, i just have a whole host of issues with them :/ i feel like for the most part they're annie fans who don't care about hitch, and only ship it because they think hitch is hot...i've seen literal HA mains not be able to come up with a single reason annie would like hitch besides her being hot. the few fics i've read always center around sex and give hitch 0 personality beyond being hot & loving annie. and honestly i feel like the subfandom is MAD ungrateful :/ they fight with people who don't have the same hcs (for example i got shit on bc i hc hitch as bi and they were mad and accused me of being a lesbophobe for that lol) and just...never seem grateful for what creators put out. like, when the episode when annie got out of the crystal first aired, there was a HUGE art boom and instead of being excited most HAs were crying about how it was gonna end and they wouldn't get content again soon. i'm talkin 5 minutes after the ep aired they were already hand-wringing. also they're more interested in putting them in boxes they don't fit in rather than talking about what actually makes them an interesting & good ship. like the grumpy x sunshine thing....anyone who genuinely believes hitch is a sunshine girlie is illiterate lmfao and everyone who ships HA for that reason actually ships minannie. i find them mad hypocritical, too. constantly shitting on aruani and calling armin a pedophile for being interested in annie since she was in the crystal and didn't age but turn around and ship her with hitch. nobody has to like a ship obvi but making up moral reasons to oppose it when the ship you DO like has the same pitfall is stupid. and honestly i feel like they're so OBSESSED with shitting on marlowe and mischaracterizing him? like in what world would the guy who's interested in justice & equality be a homophobic right winger...like if you're not interesting enough to come up with a compelling conflict homophobia & making him some creep who can't take no for an answer is easy i guess lol. and there's this obsession with proving that hitch hated him which is insane?? you don't have to ship them or anything i really & truly do not care but the way people are fucking illiterate and say with their whole stupid chests that she hates marlowe or doesn't care about him is nuts.

honestly, i still do like HA and sometimes write for them, but i only enjoy them in the privacy of my home. i will literally NEVER post more HA bc i don't want to feed that shit community any more than i already have

[violetswritingg]

Only in Darkness

Jason Todd X OFC!

Description:

"Only in Darkness can you see the stars."

Or

Marlowe Knight stumbling upon a girl prophesied to end the world and going on the adventure of a life time.

Rating: M (Blood, cannon typical violence, sibling rivalry, scars, torture, trauma, angsttttt)

Want to read the other chapters?

Click here

10

Washington, District of Columbia

2018

"Rachel!" Marlowe called as she pushed through the door to the roof. Lifting a hand to block the sun from her eyes and seeing the girl curled up on the bench. Cautiously making her way over, she stood at the end of the bench. 

Rachel finally looked at Marlowe after a tense second of silence. Watery blue ice caps meet winter oceans in a painfilled embrace and Marlowe felt her heart twist in her chest. The look all too familiar from eyes mimicking a forest canopy.

"I'm a monster." Marlowe couldn't explain it. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, the way she could hear someone else's voice layered under Rachel's. The breaks lining up and shattering the wall Marlowe had tried to put up.

"I'm so sorry-"

"Stop." Marlowe cut her off, sitting beside the girl, eyes turning to steel with her voice. "Don't ever say that. You are not a monster, Rachel." The girl didn't look convinced, Marlowe swallowed hard, knowing what she had to do. 

Slowly reaching out, Marlowe laid a hand over Rachel's surprising both of them is she was being honest, "What happened in there wasn't your fault."

Rachel could feel a lot of things through their connection, fear, pain, suffering. But also, truth, light, good intentions. Rachel's lip began to tremble, her breath hitching in her throat, the dam finally breaking as she gripped onto Marlowe's hand for dear life. The girl falling forward into Marlowe's shoulder as she cried.

Marlowe tired not to make her uncomfortableness apparent, slowly bringing her free arm around Rachel's shoulders and settling it there. Marlowe expected to feel panic begin to build at the close contact, or, at the very least, the feeling of a million bugs crawling over her skin. But neither came. And slowly she started to relax, petting Rachel's hair – pulling glass out when she came across a piece.

"Everything is going to be okay Rachel." Marlowe didn't like to make promises, in her experiences they were only ever broken and led to hurt feelings and bad things. But this was a promise she wasn't going to leave up to fate. 

Dick was going to leave, she had already gave Rachel her word she wouldn't. At least until she was safe. Marlowe was just layering onto that promise. She would make it all okay, for Rachel. Because she was sacred.

Because she was just a kid. 

Rachel was younger than she had been, when she had been forced to grow up, and something about the girl in her arms being robbed of the little amount of childhood she had left to live didn't sit right with her. Rachel not getting a real childhood made her feel sick. 

It reminded her of watching her brother train at the tender age of thirteen. He should have been hanging out with his friends or asking girls out to dances, instead he was locked in the house basement doing endless drills under the thumb of their father.

If Kyle got one thing right it was that they had grown up very differently. He hadn't ever had the chance to be a kid, and that's all Marlowe ever really had been.

"How do you know?" Rachel pulled away, looking at Marlowe dead in the eyes. Water still trailing down her cheeks but she had mostly calmed down now.

"Because I used to know someone like you. Someone with abilities," Rachel perked up just a bit, and Marlowe licked her lips before continuing, "Powers don't make someone evil. It's how they use them that determines what kind of person they are."

"I killed that guy-"

"You're not the only one with a body count." Marlowe's fact obviously didn't do anything to make Rachel feel better or prove her thinking wrong. The girl pulling away slightly and sitting with her arms wrapped around her stomach, facing out towards the roof edge. Taking a breathe, Marlowe wet her lips and looked to her lap for a second to gather her thoughts. 

"What you did, Rachel, was in fear for your life. Tons of people without powers or abilities do that all the time. Wanting to live without fear - to stay alive doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human." Marlowe didn't know who she was talking to anymore, her nose starting to burn, her eyes stinging, all signals that she could cut and run. Far far away. 

But she wouldn't let herself. Not this time. Rachel needed her. She was a scared kid that was completely alone in this world and on the run. 

She wasn't going to be the cause of Rachel's demise. 

"You are not a monster Rachel." Marlowe cemented, Rachel swallowing and sniffling loudly.

She wasn't going to be her father.

"Neither are you." A single drop broke free from Marlowe's water line, her lungs forgetting how to function in this moment. Rachel reaching up and wiping away the water, a small smile on her face.

~~*~~

Marlowe leaned onto the doorway behind the platinum blonde as Dawn knocked and opened the guest room door. Dick sitting on the foot of the bed, Rachel curled up at the head. Once Marlowe had coaxed her back inside the apartment, she had all but barricaded herself inside. Too scared, too embarrassed, too guilty to face Dawn, Hank, and Dick.

Marlowe shot the girl a small smile as Dawn asked, "How you doing sweetheart?" Rachel sent a small smile back in response, "Hank is sorry, he can be a real asshole sometimes." Dawn looked to Dick as Marlowe and Rachel shared silent laughter, "We gotta go. Hank and I have that thing."

"Which I am tagging along for." Marlowe added in, Dick looked to her with worried eyes as he stood.

"I really think you should reconsider." Dick said, looking between Dawn and Marlowe, "Okay, we all know it's too dangerous."

Dawn had filled her in on the rest of the plan, and Marlowe wouldn't disagree – If it were just Hank and Dawn, but with her the odds leveled themselves out. She wasn't all that worried.

"You win some, you lose some." Dawn walked around him to have a moment with Rachel, the man now looking to Marlowe with pleading eyes.

"Marlowe, please."  If she didn't make it out of this, he couldn't make that call,. He couldn't do that to Jack.

"It'll be fine, Dick. We'll be fine." There was an iciness to her tone that didn't settle well with him. She had completely closed herself off, eyes like steel doors. Gleaming and cold to the touch. You'd think he'd be used to the weather-like changes of her moods but he didn't know what to make of it.

After Dawn was finished talking to Rachel, Marlowe switched places with the woman, laying a soft hand onto Rachel's head, "I'll be back soon. Don't break any laws." Rachel laughed and tried to get away from Marlowe's hand. Failing and almost toppling over on the bed spread. Marlowe waved over her shoulder as a last goodbye as she followed Dawn out of the room.

~~*~~

"I expected more yellow. With a name like Stargirl."

"Well, I expected more feathers. With a name like Hawk." Marlowe shot back, fixing her boots and standing up to her full height. Smirking as Hank's smug expression fell. Dawn chuckled at the pair in front of her, bringing both of their attention to her.

"Forgetting something?" Dawn, from behind her mask, rose an eyebrow and Marlowe rolled her eyes.

"They'd never forgive me." Marlowe joked, grabbing the canvas carrier bag. Pulling on the zipper and releasing the Cosmic Staff from their prison. The Staff shot up, twirling with elated shifts of light and chattering a mile a minute as they took to circling their wielder. Hank spooked back while Dawn looked on in awe. Marlowe couldn't help the smile that broke out across her lips as Cosmo settled into her grasp like a bug snug in a rug.

"Cosmo, Hank and Dawn. Hank and Dawn, Cosmo." Marlowe lifted up the Staff, the living weapon chirping and freaking out Hank even more, curses flying under his breath.

"Is that thing alive?" At Hank's question Marlowe's lips twisted into a scowl. Cosmo, sharing their wielders emotions let out an annoyed chatter in her hand.

"Yes." Marlowe bit out and Dawn made to apologize for him, Marlowe stopping her with a wave of her hand. "No, no. It happens all the time. Everyone thinks that the Cosmic Staff is just a weapon-"

"How did you even get it in the first place?" Hank questioned.

"Them." Marlowe was two seconds from blasting him. Which Dawn picked up and intervened.

"She's Starman's daughter."

"Holy fuck. Seriously?" Hank gaffed and Marlowe rolled her eyes crossing her arms over her chest, letting Cosmo hover as they pleased.

"Yeah. Seriously. You didn't put that together already? The name isn't subtle." Marlowe confirmed with attitude, shaking her head. "Can we get going already?" She lifted off the ground, hopping onto Cosmo with practiced grace, raising an eyebrow at the two senior vigilantes.

"Hold your horses Starbrat. I have questions." Hank held out a gloved hand, finger extended in accusation.

"And I'm sure I'd really like to answer them," Marlowe leaned her shoulders forward a bit, stretching out her words, "but we're kind of on the clock here." She closed off, snapping back to her perfect posture.

"I thought it was-"

"Illegal to be a vigilante in Louisiana? It is." She had been through this spiel with Rick when she first found him and pleaded for his help to track down Grundy after some sightings had been reported. Which became a much bigger thing than just tracking down Grundy, but that's a story for another time.

"You would think they'd be totally open to the idea of vigilantes, considering the good ol' Pelican State is a Red one but, unfortunately, not so much." Marlowe rolled her eyes, the Staff agreeing with her through low sounds and subtle shifts of light.

"Fortunately, the local cops aren't the ones I need to worry about, we have a... tentative partnership you could say. I handle what they can't touch otherwise because of red tape and politics and they turn a blind eye. It's the state troopers and the feds three blocks down from city hall that are on my ass." The girl's voice turning bitter at the end as she leaned back slightly on the Staff.

"I think it's just because they're mad that I'm doing their jobs better than they are." Dawn couldn't help the chuckle the bubbled up from her throat at that comment, Hank rolling his eyes regretting asking at all. Marlowe just shrugged with a quiet 'It's true!'.

"Honestly though, it's more than a little annoying whenever they show up to every crime scene where Stargirl was spotted. It makes daytime patrols a bitch to do, but watching them run around in circles makes up for it." Marlowe chuckled finally settling on the Staff and lifting up a foot or two. Hank tried to hide his wolfish grin, too amused to pretend to completely dislike the girl hovering in front of him. She reminded him of... him. Just a bit.

"Okay, we gotta go." Dawn pitched up, looking to Marlowe, "You know where to-"

"Yeah, I memorized the city map. See you in a bit." Marlowe gave the vigilantes a two-finger salute and shot off into the sky like a shooting star. Almost blinding Hank and Dawn. The man hissing with a frown twisted onto his lips.

"Jesus fucking- Can someone tell her to turn that thing down a couple levels?"

"Hank."

~~*~~

"I'm gonna get tired of that sound real quick, I already know it." Hank complained, Cosmo only chirping louder to piss him off.

"You don't hear Cosmo complaining about being stuck listening to your voice." Marlowe bit back good naturedly. A wicked gleam in her blue orbs. The drastic change in the girl from just this morning was a bit of a shock to Dawn, a good one.

Marlowe hadn't known how much she had missed suiting up with a team. It was nostalgic of when her and Rick would get ready for patrol together, Hailey or her dad on coms in their ears. Forget the battles and lives saved. Those moments, the calm, the bickering, the easy laughs and smiles. Those were her favorite memories.

Or the times where she could barely keep herself from laughing. Like after coming back from dealing with condiment king with Jason, or the banter they had as she would get on his bike since she didn't have her own to zoom through Gotham on, and Bruce wouldn't let her in the Batmobile.

Even when it was bad, when they were coming back from a major loss, Rick breaking down in her arms after they lost Grundy. After he let him go. Marlowe completely numb but still doing her best to be strong for Rick with blood still on her hands.

The good, the bad, the downright ugly. They were all still her favorite memories. Because she wasn't alone.

"Listen here Starbrat-"

"Not now you two," Dawn sighed, putting a hand on Hank's chest and looking to Marlowe, "You're on the-"

"South side of the building. It's basic divide and conquer, I got it." Marlowe huffed, clasping Cosmo like an old friend and leaning into her hip, giving the older vigilantes a look doused in exasperation.

She had done this plenty of times down at the docks in Opal stopping drug and gun shipments just like this one, this was nothing.

Dawn couldn't keep the small smile off her lips as she looked at the young adult in front of her, "Okay. Let's do this."

Marlowe's excitement made the anti-climactic entrance to the building seem all that much more disappointing. The independent contractors that Hank and Dawn said would be there... weren't. Which led to Marlowe, Hank, and Dawn meeting on the catwalk above the main space of the warehouse in less than five minutes. All three of them looking down at the small group of men toting automatic guns casually standing around and chatting in front of the back of a van.

"Something about this doesn't feel right. Where are the independent contractors?" Marlowe whispered, not liking the feeling that was settling in her stomach.

"Our intel must have been off. It's fine Starbrat, just makes our jobs easier."

"If your intel was wrong on this then what else was off? We should leave-" For the first time Marlowe was being the voice of reason, it was strange but her anxiety ramping up wouldn't let her be reckless. Not this time. Not when she had people counting on her. 

"No. We're doing this tonight. We have to or we lose them and those guns." Hank put his foot down and Marlowe looked to Dawn to talk her boyfriend off the edge, only to receive a hopeful yet sad barely-there grin.

Marlowe steeled herself, knowing that Hank was going to do this no matter what she or Dawn said, assuming the platinum blonde was going to say anything at all. Possibly dragging Dawn and herself to an early grave with him if things went sideways.

Hank nodded, a twisted smirk pulling at his lips under his cowl. Dawn shooting the nineteen year old an appreciative look before she and Hank both launched themselves over the railing. Marlowe lifting silently off the catwalk, the top of her head a foot away from the rafters as shouts of surprise and fists meeting skin and bone filled the air.

Marlowe watching over the two veteran vigilantes like some sort of guardian angel, blasting shots of cosmic energy when needed. Masked eyes narrowing when one of the men, from his new found home on the floor, lifted the barrel of his automatic gun. Aiming right for Hank's back as him and Dawn took on two guys that were still on their feet. Using their capes to block bullets coming their way. 

Just as Hank pulled at his, leaving his spine vulnerable, did the man from the floor fire.

In the blink of an eye Marlowe dropped. Her booted feet slamming into the ground, the painful tremors dissipating as she rolled to the ground. The Staff being swung around quickly and aimed at the gunman. A wave of golden energy shooting from the Staff's pointed end. Sending the bullet right back and knocking the man unconscious as he bled from his stomach.

Standing and turning, she looked to Hank and Dawn, both already looking at her. Dawn with a small smile on her face, Hank's holding a passive turn to his lips.

"Fourth of July called, it wants its lightshow back." He said gruffly, passing by her with a hint of smile on his face and heading to the van. Marlowe only smirked in response walking backwards a step behind the bird-themed duo keeping an eye out. Still having a bad feeling about this whole thing.

"Dick was wrong. There were only a couple of them." Hank grinned as he grabbed a crate of the cargo that they had come here to stop from flooding the streets. "Oh yeah, Wisconsin here we come." Marlowe seeing the glint of metal a second too late, the force of multiple bullets hitting her torso throwing her down at Hank and Dawn's feet. Cosmo rolling under the van just as Hank's shoulder got hit next. The bullet tearing through his older, non-zylon fiber, suit and lodging into his shoulder.

Bullets started to rain down on them from all sides, "There's the independent contractors." Marlowe groaned, holding out a hand for the Staff to return to. Her fingers wrapping around their warm golden metal as she stood, feeling bruises already forming on her torso where the Zylon fiber did it's job.

Dawn pulled Hank's good arm over her shoulder and dragged her partner to cover. Marlowe protecting their backs and crouching down in front of them at the front of the Van, where Dawn had laid the injured Hank. Men with guns surrounded them in an instant, automatic weapons cocked and ready to fire with a twitch of their fingers.

"Shit." Marlowe and Hank cursed. The younger vigilante looking to the older ones, unable to think of anything to get them out of this situation without Hank and Dawn ending up in caskets. Without failing.

"No!"

Her heart pounded in her ears as she came up with an idea that could work. The only thought that came to her mind was that she was going to leave her dad all alone, thinking that she hated him. Did she? Hate him?

Time seemed to slow down around her as her mouth got dry and a bead of sweat traveled down her temple. Palms getting clammy in her gloves, the only barrier keeping her grip over the Staff from turning slick. Her legs tensed, her body shifting to put more weight on the balls of her feet.

A deep breath passed through her lungs, ready to launch.

I'm sorry Dad.

Marlowe went to follow through with lift off but resistance kept her on the floor.

Dawn's gloved fingers twisted into the back her coat. The woman's almost superhuman grip keeping her on the floor.

The world sped up to real time and sounds other than her racing heart beat and furiously pumping blood hit her ears. The light haired woman and the girl sharing a conversation with just their eyes. That's when Marlowe heard it. Footsteps.

A small man waddled around the circle of gun-toting men, telling the men with guns to hold on. A tweed jacket over his small shoulders.

"Where were we?" He asked, his hands coming to his hips robotically, his face forced into a sick grin but there was nothing behind his fish-like eyes. If Marlowe didn't know better, she'd say the guy was an android that needed some oil in his joints. "Oh, yes," He pulled aside one side of his jacket and grabbed a pair of clippers, holding them up beside his head, "I believe your pants were coming down."

Marlowe winced at the insinuation and steeling herself in her decision once again. They were still out of options; the man's appearance didn't change that. If anything it only made things that much worse. 

"This will be the worst, and last, pain you ever experience." Marlowe's eyes narrowed behind her mask, legs taught, a blink away from launching when she saw the shadow slowly rise behind him.

A breath she didn't know she had been holding rushed past her lips as Dick, dressed in his Robin suit, burst through the plastic flaps hanging from the ceiling. His gloved hand forcing the man's clippers into doing exactly what he had promised to do to Hank. Covering his mouth to muffle his screams.

The men were frozen in shock and fear as Robin pulled their torture expert back through the plastic flaps. Their gun barrels dropping to the floor as one of his famous throwing R's landing in one of the men's eye.

Marlowe seeing an opportunity, acted quickly. Slamming the butt of the Staff onto the ground and throwing the off-kilter men away from her, Hank, and Dawn. The men were either sent skidding across the ground or thrown into walls. Scattering them even further.

"Come on, we gotta go." Marlowe helped Dawn get Hank up, supporting his bad side. She so badly wanted to go after the men but she knew Dick didn't need her help in that department. Hank and Dawn did.

"You could have done that the entire time?" Hank groaned at Marlowe.

"If you wanted to be swallowing bullets, then yeah, I could have done that the whole time." Marlowe snapped, shutting Hank up. Not even two steps into their way out of the building when blood splattered across a cloudy window in front of them accompanied by a scream of pure pain and fear.

"Kyle, please!" 

"Let's go the other way." Dawn suggested, her and Marlowe just having turned Hank around when Dick showed up in front of them. Marlowe blinking at the blood across his face and the darkness surrounding him.

Something she was used to with Jason, but not with Dick. Not with him in the Robin suit.

Dawn was completely shocked. So was Hank, but he was in too much pain to express much of anything right now. The platinum blonde stopping in her tracks and jerking Hank and Marlowe to a stop. Marlowe wincing when Dick reached down to take his throwing R out of the man's eye, it looked painful and was if the groan that came from the man was any proof.

"You're welcome." Dick said, turning on his heel and storming out of the warehouse.

"Someone's in a mood." Marlowe muttered, spurring Hank and Dawn out of the tense atmosphere.

"Jesus."

~~*~~

[ao3feed-eremin]

Jesus Christ We Need To Stop Crashing Ships

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/lKsM07C

by 33smallraccoonsinatrenchcoat

AoT x Star Wars. That's the just of it. I did this cause I asked my friend who I should draw light sabers for, so THANK YOU CHAR YOU'RE MY BESTIE FOR LIFE!!!!!!!! More tags and shit will be added as I go. I might not post super often depending on my work hours. I wont do smut in the main fic, but might to some side ones with that

Words: 1059, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of AoT x Star Wars

Fandoms: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, Star Wars - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M

Characters: Eren Yeager, Armin Arlert, Mikasa Ackerman, Levi Ackerman, Marco Bott, Bertolt Hoover, Reiner Braun, Sasha Blouse, Connie Springer, Erwin Smith, Hange Zoë, Moblit Berner, Mike Zacharias, Jean Kirstein, Zeke Yeager, Pieck Finger, Yelena (Shingeki no Kyojin), Ymir of the 104th (Shingeki no Kyojin), Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss, Porco Galliard, Marcel Galliard | Berwick, Dot Pixis, Gabi Braun, Floch Forster, Falco Grice, Kenny Ackerman, Frieda Reiss, Theo Magath, Nile Dok, Hitch Dreyse, Azumabito Kiyomi, Darius Zackly, Marlo Sand | Marlowe Freudenberg, Hannes (Shingeki no Kyojin), Zofia (Shingeki no Kyojin), Udo (Shingeki no Kyojin), Uri Reiss, Lara Tybur, Willy Tybur, Flegel Reeves, Dimo Reeves, Carla Yeager, Dina Yeager | Dina Fritz, Onyankopon (Shingeki no Kyojin), Asajj Ventress, Nightsister Characters (Star Wars), Talzin (Star Wars)

Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Levi Ackerman/Erwin Smith, Hitch Dreyse/Annie Leonhart, Mikasa Ackerman/Sasha Blouse, Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Moblit Berner/Hange Zoë, Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir of the 104th

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Order 66 Didn't Happen (Star Wars), Major Character Injury, First Battle of Geonosis (Star Wars), Siege of Mandalore (Star Wars), Planet Mandalore (Star Wars), Planet Shili (Star Wars), Planet Ryloth | Twi'lek (Star Wars), Planet Geonosis (Star Wars), Planet Lasan (Star Wars), Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Planet Naboo (Star Wars), Planet Coruscant (Star Wars), Planet Ilum (Star Wars), Planet Dathomir (Star Wars), Fluff, Angst

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/lKsM07C

[chaztalk]

I have figured out my Attack on Titan ships:

Rivetra (Levi x Petra) - cuz Levi deserves happiness; also fanarts of them are already in my top 3 favorite ship fanarts

Springles (Connie x Sasha) - ship I can accept as platonic friends or as a romantic pairing; gave me “severely underrated duo” even though they share one brain altogether.

Hilo (Hitch x Marlo) - only “canon” pairing I enjoyed watching. I must be a stickler for people “disliking” each other, but not really disliking each other at all

Jeankasa (Mikasa x Jean) - A surprise to me, but I’m just curious of how their characters would be like if they were to be/end up together

[seeingivy]

three days 

roommate eren x f!reader  

three years can feel like an eternity, if you let them

**find the mini-series masterlist here

content warning: eren being miserable, jean being annoying again, hitch being even worse 

an: ok I promise we return to regularly scheduled sweet boy eren after this (which is almost done being written) :00000

previous part linked here

-

Eren doesn’t sleep well. Some part of him was always flighty - twisting and turning every time he heard a noise, the fan whirring, the room creaking. He’d been like that, since he was a kid. 

His mom had mentioned that when she visited the nursery for the first time, right after he was born, that the only reason Zeke could point him out in the row of other boys was because he was rustling, struggling against his swaddle. 

The only thing that put him at ease? Kept him still through the night? You. When you would still sleep in his bed. 

The first night, after you so quickly mentioned that the two of you were a mistake, he couldn’t sleep. He could still smell you, your peach scent pressed against his pillows and his blankets. He runs his hand against his pillow cases, wishing you were here with him. 

The following morning, it took him thirty minutes to brace himself. To face you. He has to fight the urge - to touch you, press himself against you and kiss you full on the mouth. Like he should have, when you asked him to. 

He should have just done it. Maybe you’d still be here with him if he would have. Screw Zeke. All that shit about making a special moment, making your heart flutter. He should have just kissed you. 

When you were in the bathroom, getting ready. When you put his necklace on, when he lost you in the crowd, when he carried you at the concert, when you kissed his fucking cheek, when you asked him to. 

He braced himself. Deep breaths, grounding techniques. Just like Mikasa and Armin taught him. When he leaves the safe confines of his room, he finds that your key was off the hook and your sneakers were absent from the door. You left already. You’re avoiding him just as much as he’s avoiding you. 

You don’t return that night. He’s okay with it. He can’t see you. Not yet anyways. 

- 

It worries him, the second day. You still haven’t returned. He couldn’t have messed up that badly, could he? You couldn’t hate him this much, so much so that you wouldn’t come home. 

He marches over to the office, where Armin, Jean, and Annie are supposed to be. He’s hoping you’ll be there. That he’ll open the door and find you there, sprawled across the floor like you usually are.

But you’re not. Just Jean, Armin, and Annie - staring him down. 

“What’s wrong with you, Eren? Why are you…panting?” 

“Nothing, Annie. I just thought Y/N might be here.” 

“She’s out of town. Left a late notice yesterday morning for Victor.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“She didn’t tell you?” 

“No. Must have been in a rush. I didn’t even see her before she left.” 

Armin and Annie return to their work, Annie typing on her computer and Armin grading his papers.

“I saw her before she left.” 

Of course he did. 

“How did she seem, Jean?” 

“Well, a little bit earlier. She came to our apartment after she met Hitch.” 

Right. When you ran out, after he handed you the tulips. 

“Well, what did she say?” 

“Nothing much. Just asked me who she was, that’s all.” 

“And what did you say?” 

“Just the usual. That you guys pretended to see each other during soccer season, because of Marlowe.” 

“You didn’t tell her that I liked Hitch, right? That I’m with her or anything?” 

“No. Just that you guys are close during season because you spend time together and all.” 

There goes any hope of it being a misunderstanding. He doesn’t sleep that night either. Your scent on his pillows serves as a cruel reminder.  

- 

The third day, Hitch comes by. You’re still not back and he hates it. He’s had to throw the breakfast he made for you away twice, because he keeps forgetting you’re not here. 

“Are we still on?” 

“Yeah, Hitch. None of the other stuff, okay?” 

“Sure. Marlowe should be at the games and parties, so just then.” 

If he can’t be happy, someone should. He doesn’t mind it, holding Hitch’s hand here and there, slinging his arm around her shoulder to make Marlowe mad. To push the two of them together. He just wished it would do something to you, so you’d come running back to him too. 

The second she leaves, all he can think about is your absence. It’s all he thinks about anyways. He hates that it’s true. That distance makes the heart fonder. 

That’s all he wants to do. Just see you. He doesn’t care how you are - angry, pissed, detached from him. He just wants to see you, in your kitchen. He wants to hear you, singing in the shower, and watch you, sitting in the stands at his games. 

He just wants you back. In whichever way you’ll have him. 

He doesn’t sleep that third night either. Your peach smell is gone from his pillows already. He hates the passing of time. 

 - 

You return, in the dead of night. He’s sure of it. He can hear you out there, your tiny footsteps clinking the dishes into the sink. 

He nearly runs out the door, just to make sure you’re there. And you are, rinsing the dishes he left out. You’re back. 

He fights the urge. To run up to you, press you against his chest, to pepper soft kisses all over your face. 

“Y/N.” 

“Hey Eren.” 

God. Your voice. He didn’t realize that this was something he could miss - your voice, the stray hairs by your ears, the sound of your breathing. But here he is. Reveling at the sight of you. Doing the fucking dishes.  

He walks up, pressing his hands against your frame and leaning his head against your shoulders. He can smell it - the peach smell. It makes his heart ache and he tries to will down the tears. He loves you, doesn’t he? 

God. He can’t love you, can he?

“Am I imagining you or are you really here?”

“Really here, Eren.” 

You’re back. He won’t let you leave again. 

“I haven’t seen you in three days.” 

“I went to see Porco and Pieck for the weekend.” 

“It’s Tuesday. I was worried about you.” 

“Sorry Eren.” 

He can’t even do it. Be mad at you, tell you he was hurting the past few days. He can’t even remember it now, the feel of your skin against his hands was enough. 

“It’s okay. You wake up Porco and Pieck with your morning concert while you were there?” 

Your voice doesn’t fill the air, the sound of the plate in your hand crashing does. He immediately jerks up, your hands still dangerously close to the shards that were now swirling around in the water. Before he can pull your hands out, run his eyes over your fingers to make sure you weren’t hurt, you mutter three words that catch him off guard. 

“Screw you, Eren.” 

He can feel his breath stopping in his tracks. He’d never heard you like this, especially with him. Your voice was soft, sweet honey saccharine. Even when you were fast asleep, all tangled up in his sheets. So why were you angry?

“What?” 

“I’m so sick of you making fun of me all the time. If something I do annoys you, you should just tell me, instead of making passive aggressive comments.” 

Making fun of you? All the time? You couldn’t be serious. There’s no way you misunderstood that. He loves your singing - that you’re comfortable enough to scream in the shower when he’s a few feet away. That the music makes you happy enough to sing out loud, to dance in the kitchen, to share it with him. This couldn’t come out of nowhere. Because you have to know. You have to know that he loves it. 

“Hey, what happened, peaches? You could never annoy me. I was just teasing you.” 

He watches his words hit you, the air tightening in his chest at the sight of you pushing your hands against your eyes. No. No. He couldn’t have made you cry. 

“You happened. I’m not something for you to laugh at Eren. I have feelings too, you know?” 

He watches you move, slamming your door against the frame as you scurry into your room. 

He doesn’t understand it. How you were tangled in his arms, breathing soft against his ears as he kissed you four days ago and now you can’t stand him. He hates it, that he knows how you feel, your touch. Maybe it would be easier if he hadn’t known it at all. 

- 

“We’re okay, right?” 

The question comes three days later, one of the first times you and Eren had been alone in your apartment, since your argument. You kept inviting people over, so you could avoid this. That look, that question, talking about it. 

You nod, wordlessly, sorting out the paperwork. It’s easier to focus on the papers than his eyes. 

Eren had mentioned that the two of you needed to go into town tomorrow, to meet your landlord. Kenny Ackerman. He was apparently a touch eccentric, so he was preparing you for the meeting. You just had to officially sign onto the lease. But how do you tell Eren you’re not even sure you can live with him anymore? 

“How have you been? Lately?” 

You hate this. Be cool about it. 

“Good, Eren. Just busy. How about you?” 

“I’m good too. Soccer season and all that.” 

You wish he was kind enough to be cruel about it. That he could either love you or hate you - nothing in between. You’d prefer that, him declaring he doesn’t care for you. It would be easier that way. But he stays the same - caring, thoughtful, warm. 

“When’s your next game?” 

“Today.” 

“Got your good luck charm?” 

“It broke actually.” 

He opens the kitchen drawer, pulling out the key and the snapped chain. He hands the pieces to you, as you run your fingers along the chain. 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Not sure. Let’s hope I don’t break an arm or something.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve worn that necklace every game I’ve played since I was twelve. One time I forgot it and I broke my ankle.” 

You laugh, twisting the key in your fingers, as you look at him.

“You can’t be serious, right? That’s just a coincidence.” 

“It’s real.” 

“Did it ever happen again, Eren?” 

“No. Do you think I’d ever play a game without it? That’s like basically asking for it.” 

You laugh, the two of you stuck in the middle of the kitchen. You hate this. That he can make you laugh, even after not talking for a week. That some part of him is always familiar to you, that you want to let him in. 

“Do you still have the necklace I gave you?” 

At the concert. 

“Ah yeah.” 

He digs his fingers underneath his shirt, pulling the silver chain out. You spin your finger, signaling for him to turn around. You quickly take the latch off and string the key through the chain before securing it back on. You tap his shoulder and he faces you again, watching you readjust and tuck the necklace back into his jersey. 

“Thanks peaches. Saving my life here.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Sometimes you forget why you’re mad at him. Why you can’t do this. Hitch walks out of Eren’s room, right on cue, with green glitter spread across her face. Right. That’s why. 

“Hey Rennie. Still can’t find it.” 

“I’m not sure what I did with it, Hitch.” 

“Have you seen it, Y/N?” 

“Seen what?” 

“His extra jersey. I wanted to wear it to the game today.” 

Right. The jersey he gave you. To wear to all his games. 

“I think it might have gotten mixed up with my laundry. I’ll go check my room.” 

You retrieve the jersey from your room, your knuckles nearly white when you hand it over to Hitch to wear to the game. You make a mental note to fold and return the rest of Eren’s clothes you had and put them in his room. There’s no point in keeping them at this point. She gives you a smile, taking the jersey to go change into. 

“You didn’t have to give it to her.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I gave it to you for a reason.” 

“I don’t mind. It makes sense anyways - girlfriends always wear jerseys to the games.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend.” 

“I know.”

Girlfriend, fling, your roommate you kiss sometimes. It’s all the same thing. As much as you think you’ve given everything, that there’s nothing more that can hurt you, the universe proves you wrong. 

You’re sure it’s all the same with her too - kissing scars, pretty dresses, soft kisses. It’s a bad omen, but you hope it hurts for her as much as it does for you, when it’ll end.

- 

next part linked here

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