#shorter than part one because i just can NOT do another six thousand word piece right now

[grimsonandclover]

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Sympathy is a knife.2

or; Wake up, I'm sorry.

Stanford!Tashi x tennis player!reader

Song of the post 'when you sleep - my bloody valentine'

Tashi Duncan visits you at the hospital. It could have been her.

SFW

2.4k words

you know the drill. injury, medical shit to the best of my ability which isnt a lot, tashi duncan being kinda gay??? homosexuality? in front of my salad? if you squint, reader being emo but like come on, hospitals, nurses, knee splints, DRUGS (the medical kind and morphine), reader is generally unwell but she also just came out of surgery, suicidal thoughts, more mentions of vicera, its the hospital episode (again) (like beach episodes but less horny and sexy and fanservicey more painful and ugly and intimate so nothing like a beach episode), enemies to idk what this is! I'm a native english speaker but i play fast and hard with the rules of the language (meaning i fuck up tenses a lot and don't catch it all in editing, but i know they're there so i think that makes it better), minimal use of Y/N but there are some points where I had to.

The steady rhythm of the heart rate monitor was the only indication that you were alive.

Tubes in your arm. Tubes in your throat. Hues of purple and yellow peaked from under the immobilizer brace and pins covering your leg and drainage tubes, matching with the same shades of color under your eyes.

Despite it all, she couldn't help but think you looked peaceful. You looked dead. The nurse said you were still knocked out from surgery and would be for a while. Tashi wondered if you were dreaming.

Tashi wondered if you always looked so lifeless in your sleep.

Her sepia eyes couldn't move from that leg. The bandaging, the knowing what's right under. She saw your soul, and then she saw your bones and blood. Tashi had cried in her mother's arms when it had fully hit her.

Tashi Duncan won the match. Your injury meant your forfeit. It didn't taste as sweet at she wanted, more bitter and even vexatious. She wanted to win through skill, not... this. It almost felt like you did this on purpose. You pitied her.

No, she knew that wasn't it. It was easier to blame you than accept the fate of an athlete. These things just... happen, sometimes. It could've been her, instead. But it wasn't. It was your bones that reached for the sunlight filtering down on the court amongst the blooming crimson, not hers. Tashi was here, standing before your resting form, with two perfectly functional knees.

When the nurse came and told her it was time to leave, and Tashi gathered her things from the small armchair in the corner of the room where she watched you from, she felt... strange. Changed.

The fan of your eyelashes on the tops of your cheeks, your pallor, the halo of hair framing your face and resting head. Those tubes. The IV. The heart rate monitor. The surgical steel pins securing your knee in place. Her eyes land on the small tattoo on your inner wrist, one she'd never noticed before. Tashi recognized them as your father's initials.

There was the girl she hated, softly asleep despite her surroundings. You almost looked beautiful, and then she got this feeling in her chest, and it startled her.

She pitied you.

Waking up was miserable. Your throat was dry like never before, the lights hurt your eyes worse than any hangover you've experienced, and the feeling of the scratchy hospital gown made you want to claw your skin off. You could hear your heart rate monitor, and in that moment you wished it would just flatline.

The sob that broke out, despite how dry you felt, when you saw the state of your knee, was ugly. Your nurse, Nurse Amanda, was a useless piece of shit. You had major respect for healthcare workers and everything that they have to go through on a daily basis, but Amanda could go fuck herself to hell. She's the one that had asked you for an autograph when you requested your brother's music to be played.

"Oh, your knee." She'd say casually while writing things down on a chart as disgusting, fat, blobs of salt ran down your face and chin and you tried to remember how to breathe properly. "Some physio and you'll be right back on the court or in the club. I'm sure."

"How," hiccup, "How much physio?" You try to wipe the tears, but more keep coming. It's like your eyes were sucking any moisture from your mouth and lips just to supply a fresh batch of them. Wasn't Amanda supposed to bring you water?

Fucking Amanda looks down at her chart, tapping a pen to her chin. You were on drugs, but no amount of them could completely rid the feeling of your knee and it freaked you out. Every time the corner of your eye caught on the metal pins that poked from it, you felt a shiver run through you. "About a year, possibly more, possibly less. It was a brutal break."

She covered her mouth sheepishly like she just told you the secret ingredient in a family recipe. "Oh, I shouldn't have said that."

No, she shouldn't have. It just makes you stare at your fucked leg even harder. It just makes the tears fall even more. The collar of your hospital gown, one a powder blue, now soaked a darker cornflower.

When Tashi returns, you've calmed down considerably-- mostly thanks to the increased dosage of morphine. It's been two days since, and it's actually hard to remember anything that happened that day. Or the day before, or when you first woke up this morning. God bless morphine.

Though you can't tell, Tashi hasn't changed from what she wore when she visited you yesterday. Nobody even told you that she came earlier, and she preferred it that way. She didn't know why she came back, or why her heart fluttered when the nurse told her that you'd woken up.

Tashi stood still at the door, and you lay exactly where you would stay for the foreseeable future on that damn hospital bed staring back at her. She noticed how you had such pained eyes. The harsh hospital light cast shadows from your browbones to your cheeks, draining color from your pupils. How'd she never seen it before? Words dried in her chest like withered flowers before they got the chance to bloom, and she could feel them sit there. Tashi honestly had no clue what she wanted to say. She could say "I'm sorry" or "Are you okay?" but those were useless words. She didn't like useless things.

When you spoke, and you spoke first after a long stretch of awkward silence and staring, your voice was clearer than it was earlier-- because Fucking Amanda finally remembered you might need hydrating after sobbing for three hours straight and major surgery. Despite that, you still spoke low and broken.

"What are you doing in New York?" She's meant to be back in France.

A pull between her eyebrows, like an invisible string being yanked. "What?"

You look aside at the circles of cleared dust. She heard you, you weren't that quiet.

"Fuck you." She slowly shakes her head. What she means is fuck you for questioning her, because she doesn't have a good answer. You can read between the lines.

You laugh at the suddenness of it, and then your head spins a little more. In a nice way, even though you're meant to be scared of her. "It's a reasonable question. You're meant to be playing against..."

"La Lourie."

"Right. Her. So, what are you doing in New York?" What are you doing here.

Tashi doesn't move from the door, arms crossed as her fingers pick at a loose string of her zip-up hoodie. She doesn't answer for a bit, eyes moving down to a spot on the floor. "I pulled out."

Your breath halts, looking up at her when her words pierce you like an arrow. You don't say anything, because really, you can't. What is there to say?

She finally steps in, leaning against the wall next to the door. An easy way out, and escape hatch. Tashi swallows thickly as the thread on the hoodie is pulled more and more. "I couldn't, uh," she blinks hard, shaking her head, "I couldn't go back out there. Not after that."

What an un-Tashi-like thing to say. She could've been in your place right now and she'd still get up and hobble to the courts, demanding someone play her. Yet, somehow, you ruined it for her. At least for now. She was meant to hate you.

"Your blood is... like, they cleaned it, but I swear I can still see it there. I had to leave."

"It's the French Open, Tashi--"

"And I'll win it next year. But, fuck, I can't play it now." she shakes her head with finality. "I tried, I went on the practice court but I could only picture you on the floor like that, crying and bloody and calling for your dad--"

Your eyes widen and your head snaps up to her. "What?"

The medical team rush from their tent onto the court, surrounding you almost the minute you crash and fall. You can't hear the scared murmurs of the croud, or the shaking breath of your opponent, or your own sobs. Just the blood rushing to your ears and out your knee.

Everyone saw how you clung to your leg, rocking back and forth on the clay. There's someone asking if you can move, someone calling for a stretcher. You just rock and cry.

"D-daddy," you whimper, eyes on the clear blue sky and swirling clouds as your vision blurs and doubles. "Dad, daddy where are you? I want my dad, I need my dad,"

The pain got so bad you stopped feeling it.

Those in the crowd who knew about your dad gasped. Amber stood frozen, watching, not knowing what the hell there was to do. Tashi couldn't feel her legs and her stomach turned. She ran off the court into the player's tunnel, spilling out into the first trashcan she could find. When they finally got you onto the stretcher and off the court, you'd passed out.

Naturally, it was all over the news. Players get injured all the time, but it wasn't often that players like you crashed and burned so brutally. News sites discussed and speculated in detail about the match, everything before, and everything after. TMZ reached out to Amber, who declined to give them any information, and even Tashi got called by a few publishers.

Amber came to your room an hour after Tashi left, rushing to your bedside as bombarding you with questions.

"Oh, fuck," She mumbled, looking over at the mess you were in. "Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry I didn't-- couldn't come sooner. I- I don't," words failed her. Sure, Amber was hard on you, and maybe she considered leaving your career in the hands of someone more emotionally capable very often, but she did care for you. Like a sick, twisted mother-daughter relationship despite the fact she was only a couple years older.

You could tell how hard she tried to not look at your leg, to keep her eyes focused on your top half. You could almost hear the anxiety going on inside that head of hers. The job insecurity must be wild. Where'd she get her check now?

Patrick was next. He almost threw up from a mix of the jet lag and seeing you. "Jesus fuck, Y/N."

He couldn't walk all the way in at first, staying by the door like Tashi had earlier. It was so much. "I got on a plane the second I could. God, this is sick."

It took him a while to come in and not feel faint, sitting by your bedside and not letting his eyes zero in on The Knee. Patrick wasn't a religious man, not by far, but he felt like praying for you.

Your mother was last. Nothing much to note there, it was a silent visit only interrupted by a call she 'had to take'. She didn't return. Seline sent a card which now lies facedown and unopened on the bedside table.

A hand on her shoulder startles Tashi from her vacant staring at her knee, a soft "We're here, Tash." from the driver's seat telling her they're home. It's been a week, now, since your fall. Looking up at the passenger's seat mirror, Tashi can see soft circles darkening under bloodshot eyes, a testament to the night terrors she's been greeted with every time she closes her eyes.

She was meant to move out ages ago from her childhood home but never quite got there. Art said it was because she was secretly sentimental, but Tashi just assumed it was cause her bed only felt right in that room. Nothing felt right, now.

Tashi helps her mother carry in the groceries, Nat and Renee bickering at the table about one thing or the other instead of helping. The older sister doesn't really hear, the words just pass through her as one bag, then another is set on the counters. She's asked to pick a side, the answer is a dismissive hand wave, their mother tells the twins to leave Tashi to breathe.

They've been tiptoeing around her all week but she's too zoned out to bother to tell them to stop. The truth is, Tashi doesn't feel like Tashi. She feels replaced, swapped out. A part of her kicks and screams at her for withdrawing from the Open, and everyone around her can tell.

Every time she sees her knees, she thinks about how it could've been her on the ground screaming, crying out for her mom or dad. Tennis was her fucking lifeline, thinking of it being ripped away like that in a blink of an eye... something in her head throbs and Tashi flops back onto her bed, staring at her blank ceiling.

She feels like she's swimming through life in a pool of shock. Nothing sounds full, everything feels slightly blurry against her skin. Art keeps calling and texting, asking if she's alright, if he should come over. She dismisses him every time. Her mother knows she needs her space to process everything, but now it feels like everything is giving her space. Too much space. She's suffocating.

Tashi forgot to ask for your number. She really wants to talk to you, despite it all. God, she can't even remember why she decided she hated you. Was there a reason at all? Did she hate you cause she felt like she had to, because everyone else did? It was like with Britney or Amy, watching them go through shit and instead of sympathizing, criticizing. Is that what Tashi was doing? Wasn't she better than that? Losing to you hurt, that was for sure, and she didn't exactly respect the DUI, but everything else... why did it matter so much to her?

All the shit-talking, all the tabloids about you she read, all the gossip she'd listen to intently from other players. It made her sick to think about, because now, and only now, she saw you as the person you were. It only took you losing it all for her to see.

Didn't her mother raise her better than that?

She grabs a pillow, pulling it over her face to block out the world. Downstairs she can hear the argument between Nat and Renee heat up, her father in the next room on a work call, her mother making fresh juice in the kitchen. The neighbor's dog, Lucky, is barking outside. Someone's starting a car. Art's new text buzzes her phone.

Tashi thinks about how the whole world moves on while you're stuck in that bed, and how it could have been her.

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[cuddlesslut]

Part Seven: Regrets

Atsumu x fem reader, Suna x rem reader, Hinata x fem reader

A/N: guess who’s fridge went out and won’t be able to get a new one till the 15th 🙋🏻‍♀️😩. Sorry this chapter is shorter than usual it’s kind of a filler But next chapter should be pretty long. I know a couple of people were wonder what happened with him so here we are with the return of a character. I might set up a poll for who should YN end up with so look out for that. I’m going to start writing my next story soon it’s going to be another angst!

Warning: Angst that’s about it. Maybe a lil lewd language.

Part Six: Promises

Part Eight: Hope

He laid in his empty bed staring up at his ceiling the only sound filtering through the room was the echo of the tv in the livingroom. He didn’t have the energy to go shut it off, plus he found comfort the noise it brought he found the silence unbearable. He sighed as he looked at the open space next to him. He never took much stock in how empty it felt without you next to him. The smell of your shampoo had long since vanished from the pillows. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine you were here next to him your head resting on his chest your hands interwoven talking about your plans for the day but while the memory played in his head clear as day his body had forgotten your warmth. It wasn’t too hard to picture , you had spent several morning just like that wrapped in each other’s embrace. He thinks to the mornings he’d walk out of his early showers to find you leaning against the kitchen counter drinking your morning coffee. He can still remember how you enjoyed your first cup of coffee to start your day. You liked your coffee sweet , but to were you could still taste the rich coffee flavor, always pairing it with an array of creamers. He remembers when you first started staying over at his place and he realized your affinity for flavored coffee he went out to the store and stocked up on as many flavors he could find in hopes you’d stay for more coffee before heading off to school. He loved that sight in the morning walking out and seeing you clad in just his shirt your hair a mess from last nights activities. But you weren’t here to have coffee in the morning, all of the creamers starting to expire, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Atsumu has spent the last seven month alone. There were a few nights he’d tried to pick up girls just to try and fill the gigantic hole left in his life by your absence but those all ended in disaster. One night he tried to have a careless hook up it didn’t get past the front door when he accidentally moaned your name when the random girl had cupped his manhood. She wasn’t very happy about that. He received a knee to the groin as she fleed the house. Another time he tried he was able to keep his mouth shut from making any mistakes after choosing a girl who was nothing like you but then he had another problem. He couldn’t get it up. You plagued his thoughts. You were the only woman his body wanted. It was quite embarrassing.

After Suna rocked his shit he finally started to snap out of his self pity. Why the hell was he crying? Because he was lonely? He can only imagine how lonely you felt every night he didn’t come home. He sighs running his hands down his face he really was a piece of shit he thinks. He didn’t treat you the way you deserved and he knows that. He knows he was selfish and inconsiderate. He knows he’s way to late but he regrets everything he did. Every single mistake eats away at him. None of it was worth it. Every flirt, every compliment that boosted his ego, the rush of excitement of being with someone else it was all worthless compared to being with you. He thinks back to everynight he stayed out late or he canceled dates, about the pain that hid behind your eyes. Now that his head wasn’t stuck up his ass he could finally see all of the misery he put you through. And he hated himself for it.

The setter wanted nothing more that to fix all of his mistakes, but he knew he was too late. Atsumu didn’t expect you to ever in a thousand years forgive him or even in a million years want him back, but he knows he can’t just do nothing. He’d spend the rest of his days trying to make amends. After Suna had pointed out how horrible he was for not looking for you he did everything to find you. He started by calling the University to see if you had been attending class but even with the title of fiancé , which he understood was false by not adding former to the title, they refused him any information to protect your privacy. He had long noticed the empty bank account but he wasn’t worried about that the money it was the least you deserved. Plus the fantasy of making you his wife and calling you YN Miya was nothing but a pipe dream now. So he’s sure the money would do you better. He tried to follow any money trail you left. He found the hotel that you must have run to that night. But even that was a bust leading to a dead end. He only knew one more course of action. He called your parents. They refused to answer his calls. Eventually he drove down to Hyogo by himself. The setter stood there on the front steps he’d stand on every morning when he’d walk you to school. It felt so familiar to knock on the cedar door, but everything felt so distant from his memories. Still he wasn’t quite sure what he expected, maybe for you to answer the door with a bright smile like you had all those years ago yet what he received was your mother standing there with a look of disgust present. He didn’t get a word in before she slammed the door in his face. He begged for her come back to please talk to him he just needed answers but he only received silence. He stayed there for close to an hour trying to get just a morsel of information. It was useless they refused to speak to him. That was his last idea he could come up with for finding you. Full of dread he made his way to his car ready to make the long drive home. The next day he received a phone call from his brother.

“Hey Samu what’s u-” the blonde started before his grey haired twin interrupted his greeting going straight to the point.

“She’s alive and fine,” Atsumus heart stuttered before he breathed a sigh of relief. He opened his mouth to ask his next question but Osamu cut him off yet again already knowing what his twin was going to ask.

“No we don’t know where she is. Kita-Senpai went to her parents and all they’d state was she was alive and out of harm, not that I’d tell you where she is if I knew,” Osamu’s tone was sharp. Atsumu knew he deserved that. His brother had made him well aware of his dissatisfaction in the blondes actions. He had to thank the his brother though, as upset he was with him he still looked out for him. Always checking up on him making sure he was eating and keeping up with his hygiene, throwing away all the liquor he could find because as disappointed he was with Atsumu he couldn’t let him tear himself apart.

“I know Samu, thank you for telling me.” He spoke softly before clicking the end call button.

He accepted that it was best he stayed out of your life. He wanted to make everything up to you and if staying out of your life was wanted then he’d respect your wishes. He spent the next months bettering himself. He cut all alcohol out of his life. Only going out when it was with his teammates although that was a rare occurrence they were also quite disappointed with how he had treated you, especially his wing spiker Sakusa. Omi-Omi had always had a soft spot for you. But still they didn’t let it affect their game play. He focused all of his energy on volleyball. He even started going to a few therapy sessions for his self distructive behaviors and impulses. He really wanted to do and be better if not for you then for himself. Although he still had trouble being home alone without you, never feeling quite whole. With out you this house would never truly be his home again. He was starting to get better and not drown in agony every morning he woke up alone although he knew he deserved it. One step that had made the process easier was boxing up the remainder of your belongings that you had left. For so long he had kept everything just as you left it hopeful for your return thinking maybe everything could go back to normal and life could be picked up where it was left off although this time he’d swear to never hurt you again. It was unrealistic to think that though. His therapist had told his several times it was a step he needed to take and while it took several months he was finally able to remove any trace from the house. That night he cried him self to sleep from the finality that came from not seeing a piece of you around as though you had never been there in the first place.

He regretted not cherishing you for the amazing woman you are. He’ll never forgive himself for losing the best thing to everything to happen to him. At Seven months since that night he was finally able to breath when he went home, not suffocating from regret every moment present in those walls. The Jackals were on a winning streak and even more exciting they had just got a new member. And after all these years he was able to hold up at least one promise he had made after breaking so many at least he could fulfill one promise by finally getting to set for Shoyo Hinata.

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[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “The Harbinger.”

It was nice to finally write this piece, and sorry for not posting for the last two days. With my work schedule, weekends for me sometimes fall in the middle of the week. 

Hope you all have a great day!

“This is going to be a disaster.”

Overhead the UN flag snapped in the wind desperately trying to cool their bodies from the beating Sun.

“So you say, but I disagree.” She glanced down at the crew roster in her hands, “The boy really did his research, asked for people specifically, all the way down to the marines. A lot of them crewed the original enterprise. If this were a deck of cards I would say he has a royal flush.”

The other Admiral grunted but didn’t argue with her.

The man had never personally be into space, never even visited mars, so he didn’t pretend to know more than she did, while simultaneously being skeptical. She could deal with that, but at least he respected her enough to have trusted her decision.

Together they stood on the tarmac of the launch field.

The new ship wasn’t there as it had been built completely off-earth at Europa station considering how massive the ship was and how unwieldy the thing would have been in atmosphere. However, someone had taken the time to throw up some projectors, showing the view at Europa station as the last finishing touches were added, and cargo was loaded into her hull.

Across the Tarmac, they watched as Captain Vir stepped from UNSC headquarters and out onto the pavement. If the boy had any more bounce in his step he might as well have been skipping as he made his way up to the lectern and sat just off to the side on a metal folding chair. There were still other speeches to be given, those being the UN president, a few other major officials, and a broadcast by the GA, who were very pleased with their decision despite continuous grumbling by UNSC officers who still thought the boy was going to screw it all up.

The other admiral turned his head to look at her, “just look at him, he’s like a puppy, probably gonna piss all over himself with excitement.”

Admiral Kelly looked over to where he was sitting, on the edge of his folding chair, hands casper before him and one leg bouncing like a jackhammer against the pavement. There WAS something surprisingly doglike about him, “Oh give him a chance. I was just as excited as he was to fly my first mission, the difference was I didn’t show it. You can hardly blame a man for wearing his heart on his sleeve.” “More like smack in the middle of his forehead.”

“Give him a chance.”

He glanced over at her, “You’re fond of him.”

“He makes it easy to be fond of him.” 

The UNp resident finished with his speech and stepped down from the lectern.

“Oh here we go, what is it gonna be, a cheesy joke and a Star Wars reference.”

She glanced at him from over her shoulder, “how do you know about star wars?”

He blushed only slightly, “I have a son who is into that old vintage stuff.”

“Mmmmm Hmmm.” She said pointedly before turning back to Captain Vir as he stood from his seat. She watched as he took a deep breath to calm himself, and then walked slowly up to the lectern his back straight, his expression serious

She smiled as she watched her friend’s eyebrow raise in surprise.

“Just over a year ago I sat in a VA hospital wondering if I was ever going to walk again, Eight months ago, I wondered if I was going to survive, six months ago I wondered if I would ever fully recover, and one week ago I wondered what kind of drugs the brass was smoking to offer me this job.” He smiled slightly as the crowd laughed, “All joking aside, I am privileged and honored to have been chosen. I know there has been a lot of controversy behind my appointment to this position, and Ithink Admiral kelly especially for her faith in me. I am not going to delude myself into thinking I can make any promises about whether or not I will succeed, but I can promise that I will do my best, which is as much as any man can promise considering such uncertain circumstances.”

He glanced down at his papers as the wind tugged at his cap, “As we speak the last cargo is being loaded onto my ship in preparation for our first deployment into the stars. I have thought long and hard in preparation, and for a proper name for the ship that will help usher in a new age of cooperation and companionship between us and extraterrestrial life. Sleepless nights, hours with the Oxford dictionary, and plenty of inappropriate suggestions from family members…” He paused there to allow a light chuckle from the crowd, “Hours and hours of thought and planning,...” he paused smiling ruefully, “I actually found the perfect word while out with my dad searching for new tractor parts. You know how these companies are, they have to make their tractor parts sound really manly or they’re worried we won’t buy them.” There was another slight chuckle from the crowd, “Anyway, the word I found means ‘ something that comes before and that shows what will follow in the future, a herald, a precursor or a forerunner. The word I chose and the name that my ship will take is Harbinger, a herald of things to come, the forerunner of humanity’s expansion into the stars and our alliance with alien races. She will be a harbinger, but a harbinger of good things to come. The crew of the harbinger will uphold all the values and oaths of the UNSC, protect, when others cannot, sacrifice when others will not, and fight when others actively rise against those that we protect.”

He went quiet as the un flag snapped behind him in the breeze.

“I give my soul to this endeavor with every fiber of my being, and I ask for my crew to do the same.”

***

Europa station 1200 hours EST

UNSC identification badges must be worn at all times.

“Now remember, she’s got six main engines, the back one is the most powerful but make sure to use your left and right for maneuvering to keep power. Never fire the warp core andt the engines at the same time unless you want to end up a thousand light years away and by all that is holy try very hard not to initiate that shatter sequence if you can help it.” Europa station director, and lead commander on the build team led him across the open deck and towards the open cargo ramp.

Adam’s eyes were wide, stuck open with awe as they approached the ship. He had seen her only once in her full glory, having asked the shuttle to take a quick tour around the Europa station so he could get a good look at her where she was docked

By all rights she was as aesthetically pleasing as a cinder block, but he thought she was beautiful all the same.

The man pulled him to a halt waving over another figure who had, up till that point, been busy shouting orders to a group of grey jumpsuits people who scrambled to do her bidding.

She stopped yelling at them long enough to turn and walk over.

“Captain, I would like to introduce you to your Chief Engineering officer Narobi. She knows everything there is to know about this ship. If she so much as suspects something might go wrong, you listen to her, no dumbass macho man act, and no blowing her off because she's probably more important than you will be when it comes to keeping this beauty in the air.”

She was tall just an inch or two shorter than him with dark skin and hard brown eyes. She wore one of those grey jumpsuits of the other engineers, but had wrapped a bright orange and red scarf around her head, tied up in a decorative knot. She was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen though the look on her face made it very clear that she wasn’t the type to hold such things at a high priority. Looking into her cold hard eyes he had no doubt that she was ready and willing to brain him with a pipe if he ever deserved it.

Adam held out a hand to her, “A pleasure to meet you-”

She took his hand, her grip as a calloused vice against his. He hadn’t expected that and grimaced as her fingers crushed his, she leaned in very close, “You see that ship right there, captain.”

He squeaked out a response, suddenly afraid for the safety of his bones.

“That right there, that ship, is mine. You may pilot my ship, and I will even allow you to talk about her like she’s yours, but at the end of the day she is mine. I take care of her, I fix her when she is sick and I keep her in the air. You treat MY ship well and we won’t have any problems.”

She squeezed again just a little harder before letting go, and he took back his hand waving it slightly to disperse the apin, “Got it, she is your baby.” He grinned at her, “Strong grip you have there, though I’d like to keep my hands for flying next time if that’s cool.”

His smile seemed to throw her off guard and she frowned slightly, “I…. I’m sorry I was sort of expecting….”

“Some raging asshole on a power trip….?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s ok, I get it.” he flexed his fingers and waved at her as he was carted off. She stared after him eyes narrowed slightly and a look of confusion on her face .

That boy is either a real idiot or a scapegoat for the UNSC who thinks he’s going to fail

Adam stepped onto the ramp before him and headed up into the interior of the ship wide eyed like a child and bouncing with excitement. When he reached the top of the ramp he looked around watching as men and women hurried to stow cargo and do last minute checkers to see if everything was strapped down.

Turning he found a group of marines standing in one corner receiving orders on how to help. One of the marines turned, and they locked eyes.

The marine’s face was split with a matching grin, and he broke formation to race across the floor. Adam did the same, and by the end they had the entire cargo hold’s attention as they met in an embrace each of them trying to squeeze the life out of the other. Eventually Adam used his superior height to pick up the other marine and spin him around once before setting him down.

“I knew you loved me but I didn’t know it was that much.:”

Adam grinned, “ramirez you son of a bitch. I missed you.”

“I can hardly blame you.” He winked a grin splitting his handsome face, “Last time I saw  you, you were on a shuttle to Anin.” His smile died slightly, “I heard about what happened, I’m sorry to hear….” He glanced down at Adam’s leg before a smile lit up his face again, “On the brightside, you’re a cyborg now, can I see?”

Adam was surprised, not entirely used to people being so bold about wanting to see the prosthetic but, well it made him feel better, and he liked the idea of being a cyborg, so he pulled up his pant leg to give the marine a good look.

“Damn! How far does that go?”

“Buy me dinner and find out.”

The marine looked up, grinned and laughed, “Wow look at you. Not even blushing either you raging prude.”

“I only blush when I’m attracted to people.”

“Ouch, rude.”

Adam grinned and patted Ramirez on the shoulder, “I am glad you took my offer.”

“Glad to receive it. They’ve had me sitting on my ass over at fort Georga for the past year, and man being a marine is a lot less fun when you aren’t out being abducted by aliens.”

“That I can understand. Anyway, I gotta get up to the bridge, but I’ll catch up with you later, alright.”

“Later then.” The marine jogged off and he turned back to see some of the officers staring at him. He just shrugged, smiled and allowed them to lead him up and onto the bridge. The moment he stepped in was like, like nothing he could have ever dreamed. The station was facing towards jupiter, and glowing light from her swirling surface filtered in on the command center seats, and the captain’s chair was placed high above it.

It took every fiber of his being not to jump up and down squealing like a child. Even so he couldnt stop the stupid little dance that led him over to the chair. He could still sense the others staring at him, but he didn’t much care, sliding into the seat and feeling a warm rush of pure joy shooting through him like fire.

He leaned back in his seat.

Then he reached into the little pocket at the front fo his uniform and pulled out the small notebook there.

“Preflight!”

The officers hurried to their stations, and watching them rush at his words sent another thrill through him.

Engines 

Warp core

Crew

Cargo 

He rubbed his hands as they were almost done, “And one last and most important part of the preflight.”

They all turned to look at him, as he scrolled through his downloaded playlist, “You can’t just launch a ship without some epic tunes.  My life didn’t come with a preset soundtrack so I guess I have to make my own.” They stared at him, but he just grinned and turned on his pre picked music selection. It had been difficult to chose, but he had finally made a decision.

The crew shifted almost nervously as they looked back and forth between each other unsure if they wanted to be a crew under this lunatic.

Adam engaged the microphone for the rest of the ship, “Alright Ladies, gentlemen and…. marines , welcome to the Harbinger,  please keep your hands and feet inside the car for the duration of the trip, don’t throw marshmallows at neutron stars and no playing golf out the airlock. Next destination, Andromeda.” He let go of the announcement button and sat back in his seat.

“Harbinger ready for launch in Ten…” He engaged the countdown, and the crew rushed to their positions. He felt the rumbling of the engines as they engaged below him, and took control of the  manual drive as the ankers were disengaged from his ship. There was a sharp thud as they disengaged from the airlock.

He slowly adjusted their rotating engines.

3

2

1

The ships engines fired, and he took control of the ship, gently maneuvering her away from Europa with all the skill and finesse of an eagle riding an updraft.

He pressed the button to call down to the engine room.

“Captain Vir calling for report.”

Nairobi’s voice came over the intercom, “She’s practically singing, Captain.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He let the com drop, “Engage warp core.”

Europa station was already receding into the backdrop against the massive glowing orb of jupiter.”

“How far?”

“Safe warp distance approaching in in ten…”

He flipped up the switch on his chair, and waited for the count.

Their navigator turned to look at him and gave a thumbs up. At that moment he shut off the engines, and flipped the switch for warp following the targeting directory and input.

The entire crew braced themselves for warp, many of them remembering what it had felt like the first time.

Luckily for them it was a long warp, so it wouldn’t be so instantaneous.

Adam’s eyes went wide as he watched the stars bend around them. His teeth flashed white.

He had a good feeling about this.

[wille-zarr]

The Mandalorian: "Not to a Mandalorian’s Standards”

In Fields of White ~ Chapter Six ~ “Not to a Mandalorian’s Standards”

masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x f!reader

warnings: rated T for language; violence; angst

word count: 8.1k

chapter summary: you must make a challenging decision concerning your arrangement with din, but all is threatened when old dangers arise

story summary: fleeing from the life you wish more than anything to forget, you are left to navigate the galaxy alone as a wide-eyed wanderer. in the process of evading the dangers linked to your previous life, your destiny is forever altered when you cross paths with an intimidating mandalorian and his unusually gifted child.

a/n: uwu

also found on: Ao3

In Fields of White

Chapter Six: “Not to a Mandalorian’s Standards”

“Tell you what, Starlight-” your father’s eyes twinkle down at you- “there’s no better place in the galaxy to make a tough decision than on the back of a speeder bike, going faster than your mother would ever approve.”

Great advice, Papa.

Too bad that advice is about to get you killed.

Though, you do have a slight suspicion that when he told you “fast”, he never meant quite this fast.

But then again, knowing your dad, maybe he did.

“Oh-” you reach up, wiggling your goggles down into position- “blast it.” Gritting your teeth tightly together, you accelerate the speeder bike, shooting over the dried desert landscape of Arvala-7. 

The cool evening air prickles the exposed parts of your face like a thousand sharp needles sinking into your skin, but the discomfort doesn’t distract you. You stare straight ahead, focused only on the tangled thoughts rolling back and forth in your brain in a jumbled, glued-together mess.

“Running away? You’re good at that.”

Faster. Faster.

If you could just go faster, maybe the voices would fall behind, leave you alone.

You lean forward on the accelerator, pushing the speeder bike to its absolute limits. The old bike begins to vibrate under your body, rattling as if threatening to blow apart in a thousand pieces. If you were still that adrenaline-seeking teenager, you might would take that as a challenge.

But hey, you’ve cheated death this long. It’d be a shame to lose the game at this point…

That and Cara’s the last person you’d want to upset if you destroy her bike.

You notice a cliff-wall looming in the horizon, rapidly approaching at the speed with which you are traveling. With a sharp hiss, you slam on the brakes, bracing, squeezing your eyes tightly together as you spin around in tight circles. 

One…

Two...

Three…

Four spins.

You stop. 

You don’t fight the grin that stretches across your face.

“Banthaspit! Hell yeah.” You peel the goggles off your face, harshly rubbing your eyes with a dust-encrusted hand. “If I wasn’t forced into hiding, the Keolith racing circuit wouldn’t know what hit it!” you snort.

With a sigh, you kick one leg over the speeder bike, positioning your body sideways on the seat. You force yourself to slowly exhale, shivering as all of the tension pent up within you tiptoes its way up your spine, releasing out into the fresh open air.

A temporary relief. Your stress rushes back in droves to fill the void.

“All wound up. You’re all wound up,” you mutter under your breath, “for no reason!”

With a groan, you flop backwards … wildly flailing your arms as you fall back against the open air.

“YIPE!” you squeak, sliding right off the bike and landing back on the ground below with a sharp oof. Groaning pathetically, you rest your head back against the dirt. 

Well, at least no one saw that. 

You’re not sure how long you lie that way. Not long enough, if your opinion means anything. Eventually, you gather enough motivation to crack one eye open and grimace up at the darkening sky.

All of this- this melodrama! All because some Mandalorian warrior pinned you to the ground? With his body?!

…

Oh, shit.

A Mandalorian kicked your ass and called you a brat.

You’re done for.

Your face explodes into flames. You know yourself all too well… You crave the mysterious, the exciting… all of which your proximity to the curious, cryptic Mandalorian has brought you more than an abundance of.

You can no longer ignore the red flags ding-ding-dinging in your head.

Hell.

It would probably be a… bad idea… to travel in close quarters with the Mandalorian. Not with your overactive imagination working overtime hours. Besides, when you made the deal to travel with Din, you had no idea a child would be involved. 

Those dark, piercing eyes of the Mandalorian’s son appear before you, along with a pang, a squeeze in your chest. 

If…if a bounty hunter tracked you down on the Razor Crest- the child… he could be hurt and…and-

Grinding your teeth, you dig your nails into the palms of your hands until you are sure you must be drawing blood.

No. Never again.

You need to talk with Din.

You know what you must do.

-------

Pulling back up to the homestead, you are met by a herd of stampeding whomp rats, also known as the Sorgan children.

“She’s back!”

“Hello!”

“We’ve been looking for you!”

“Whoa, whoa-” you toss your hands up- “One at a time, will ya?” You crack a grin. “I haven’t been this popular since a Hutt promised me his eternal love.”

“Huh?” 

“What’s a Hutt?”

“Ah,” you laugh, kicking your leg over the speederbike, “I’m only joking.”

“Look, Ms. Cara, she’s back with your speederbike!”

You tear your eyes upwards, inwardly cringing as you watch Cara approaching.

“Um, look, Cara,” you laugh, rubbing your arm up and down. “I-I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed your bike, um…”

Cara crosses her arms, eyeing you with a pointed expression.

Oh, Hutt fudge.

“You wouldn’t hurt me in front of children!” You bounce back, placing the bike between you and Cara, ignoring the children’s shrieks of laughter.

Cara takes a few steps forward, inspecting her speederbike with a few brief glances. “I suppose it’s still in one piece… You sure left in a hurry.” Rubbing her hands across the handlebars, she continues inspecting the bike. “Didn’t have a chance to finish your self-defense lesson with Mando.”

Maker!

For the love of all that is holy, Cara-

“Wait-” she smirks- “are you blushing?”

KARKING HELLS!

“I’m. not. blushing.” you hiss through your teeth. 

“She’s turning RED!” Birdie shrieks.

“But why?” Winta asks. “I’m confused.”

“I’m not!” Your voice cracks along with your composure.

Blast you, Cara!

If Cara wasn’t capable of twisting you up like a Bothanian Pastry, you’d have some choice words right about now.

“It’s red from-from racing this bike against the wind- is all!” You knit your brows and cross your arms tightly across your chest. “Come on, kids-” you wave your hand to the side, your strained voice giving yourself away- “I’m… I’m sure your parents don’t want you out after dark.”

“I’m so confused.” Winta sighs, trotting towards the huts with the five other children marching along behind her.

Birdie pauses behind the rest. Finally, he twists around and races back to you. Throwing his arms around your legs, he grins up at you with his adorable little missing-tooth smile, turning your heart to mush.

“See you at the bonfire!” As quickly as he threw his arms around you, he spins around and dashes away.

“Bonfire?” You raise an eyebrow at Cara.

“Yeah,” she sits back against the seat of her bike, checking over the instrument gages. “The villagers’ idea.” Cara flashes you a quick glance. “They always do this when a visitor arrives, me or Din. I do have to say, for a bunch of country folk-” Cara smirks- “they sure know how to have fun.”

Celebration. Stars, you haven’t attended a party of any kind in months! Parties were usually a thing of business for you on Nar Shaddaa. A way to make connections, play politics, earn some extra cash- whatever. The point is, they were rarely enjoyable. At times, they were downright miserable.

Maybe that association will change tonight. Yes. Yes, you will have fun; you will relax. No use getting all worked up over the conversation you must have with Din tonight…

Which is easier said than done.

“Well,” you sigh, throwing both hands on your hips and meandering away, “guess I better get cleaned up then.” You let your eyes sweep the homestead yard, noticing, sure enough, a bonfire is being constructed several yards away from Kuill’s hut. But more importantly-

No sign of Mando, thank the stars.

You aren’t prepared to face him just yet after that, um, tussle earlier…

“Sorry about giving you a hard time.”

You twist back around at Cara’s voice.

“At least, I’m sorry for doing it in front of little ears.” Cara shrugs, but she is hardly hiding the amusement etched in her eyes.

You snort. “Don’t lie.” Rolling your eyes, you spin around, marching determinedly towards Kuill’s hut. “See you tonight.”

-------

“YIPE!”

“Look, I’m sorry!” 

“Fu-… uh, um, I mean, stars!” You clutch your scalp, wincing against the relentless barrage of brush strokes. You hear a snort from behind where you sit.

“You don’t exactly sound sorry, Omera.” You tilt your head backwards to find Omera, a hand on one hip, a brush in the other, shaking her head in defeat.

“I think the easiest option-” Omera angles her head to the side- “would be to just cut out the tangled bits.” 

“Kriff,” you whisper under your breath, absent-mindedly tightening the bathrobe Omera lent you around your waist. “Well, still better than another twenty minutes of this torture.” You pout your lips like a child. 

“Why is it so tangled?”

Twisting around in the chair, your eyes find Winta in the corner of the room, braiding her hair with a dark green ribbon. 

“Eh-” you toss her a smirk- “I don’t think you’re ready to hear about Taek just yet.”

“Hmf.” Omera grunts. “Would this Taek story also explain why one side of your hair is a good bit shorter than the other?” You feel Omera’s fingers rake through the ends of your hair, tugging when they reach a tangle. “Look at that! It’s a good three inches shorter!”

A bright grin stretches across your face. “No, that’s a different story altogeth- OUCH!”

“Sorry!” The amusement in Omera’s voice is thinly veiled. “Get my scissors, Winta.”

“Bloody hells, Omera!” you hiss under your breath. “Why does everyone here take such enjoyment in tormenting me?” You lower your brow when you are met with a melody of snickers. 

“What,” Omera laughs, “have the children been giving you a tough time? Or Cara? Din?”

Din.

You could really use your own Beskar helmet right about now. You feel the entirety of the blood in your body blast up to your face, radiating warmth at just the mere mention of his name. 

It’s like the longer you avoid him, the more embarrassed you grow.

Tucking your face under the collar of the bathrobe, you are met with the sharp rap of scissors against your head.

“Hey!”

“Head up. Do you want straight hair?”

“Not if you’re going to keep doing that!” You crinkle your nose. “Have you even cut hair before?”

“No.”

“Maker!”

At the threat of being smacked with scissors again, you decide it is your best bet to remain perfectly still. Silently listening as Omera and Winta rattle off about what she should wear to the bonfire and what games the children could play, you feel the tension drain off your shoulders. It sounds just like a conversation you and your mother might have had once… The air grows thick, and you let your eyes slip closed, breathing deeply, imagining the room you sat in was that of your Sularian home… 

A tug on your sleeve from a little hand rips you out of your reverie. 

“What are you going to wear?”

“Hmm?... What? Oh.” You blink, struggling to gain back your composure. Your eyes focus in on the little face in front of you. 

“Um, I guess what I always wear,” you sigh. “…Don’t have any other clothes.” A teasing smirk tickles at the corner of your mouth. “A krayt dragon ate them all up.”

Winta bursts into giggles. “It did not!” 

“Nah, maybe not.”

“You could wear a dress of mine.” Omera interjects.

“Really?” Your eyes widen in delight. “Um, I- uh, could I have one with sleeves?”

Better safe than sorry… You can’t risk questions about your forearm tattoos. Besides, if 

Cara and Din recognized them… things would turn, no doubt, a wee bit awkward.

“Of course! And just in case you wanted to-” Omera’s voice takes on a knowing tone- “Din and Cara will be heading into the nearest outpost tomorrow to buy up supplies before Cara heads off.” Her voice softens. “You could go along with them and buy anything you nee-”

“Blaster,” you yank around in the chair, ignoring the yelp of frustration from Omera. “Need one like-” you frown- “yesterday.”

“Fine, fine.” Omera lowers her brows. “Now, please, could you just keep your head straight?”

“Haven’t I been?”

-------

You step out of the protective darkness of Kuill’s home, grinning brightly to discover the homestead yard bounding with life. The flames of the bonfire dance, bobbing back and forth from one log to another, casting a flickering golden haze over everything in its vicinity. Chairs and colorful blankets are spread out, circling the fire. Smiling, you watch with delight as the children race around underfoot, their parents shooing them away from the tables overflowing with food. 

Speaking of food, the wafting scent of it carries along with the light nighttime breeze, triggering your stomach into growling like a Rancor. With a wistful sigh, you begin to walk forward. 

But, oh dear.

To get to the food, you must pass by Kuill, Cara, and Din, who’s standing against the wall of a hut, his armor gleaming reflected golden light. You don’t think they’ve noticed you… yet.

Stars, stars, stars! You haven’t prepared a mask for this. You aren’t ready to face him!

Gulping a deep breath of air, you rip your eyes away, pretending to be otherwise occupied with the starry sky. 

Blast it all! How could you have been so manipulative, so charismatic on Nar Shaddaa and yet fail so miserably now? 

Damn, you’re out of practice!

Carefree.

Confident.

Yeah, that’s what you’ll be. With a sharp nod of the head, you settle for a self-assured expression, hoping it’d be a solid enough cover, at least strong enough to resist any ribbing from Cara.

You instinctively reach up to your brow line to grab at what would have been your hat brim to lower it. Cringing, you stare at your open fingers. You really miss the protection of the hat… You feel… vulnerable without it.

Again, you’re beginning to more and more understand the appeal of a helmet. 

“Wait, look!” One of the voices of the children interrupts your stride. “She looks like a mom!”

“Hey,” you snort, crossing your arms, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

 Your eyes widen with an unease only children with no filter are capable of eliciting as they corral you, inspecting your new appearance with an intense, terrifying scrutiny.

“Stars!” You back up a bit. “It’s just a skirt! Please be kind!” you chuckle and kneel down, ruffling up the hair of the littlest boy. Your face softens as you take note of the Mandalorian’s son peeking at you from behind the children, a bit shyer than the rest. Smiling, you give him a little wink, stealing a little grin out of him.

“Enjoy their fascination while it lasts.” Omera chuckles as she walks up, resting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “They shower new people with attention until another new face shows up and steals the spotlight. Din was the favorite until you arrived.”

“So then, I stole you guys from the Mandalorian, did I? I’m cooler than a Mandalorian!” You chuckle with the kids as you stand back up. You tighten the knot on the front of your blouse, uncomfortable with a sudden sensation of being watched. 

You know, you can just feel, that the Mandalorian is staring at you.

Oh hells.

“But-” Birdie frowns, tugging on your skirt- “you can’t fight in that!”

“Fight?” You jerk your head back, trying to make sense of his words. “You planning to fight me or something?”

Giggles.

“No, Kelsa saw you with Cara. Said she beat you up. We all wanted to watch.”

“Yeah… well.” You feel your cheeks flame when a bark of laughter reaches your ears. 

“Cara!” you shout, spinning around on your heel and staring daggers in her direction.

“Sorry!”

You are about to shoot off a snotty reply when your eyes are drawn, magnetized to the singeing glare of the Mandalorian’s visor. You instantly shut your mouth. 

He stares you down, arms crossed in a relaxed manner, as he leans up against the wall beside where Cara sits. You suddenly feel very, very small.

Oh… Stars.

You frown at Din, shifting your eyes away from him. You immediately slip back into your carefully crafted persona, shaking off your unease. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve never been much of a fighter.” You twist around and face the children. “I’m… not very strong, much like you lot.” You sigh, pointing a finger at yourself. 

You carefully tiptoe through your words. “I’ve busted my nose, broken bones, dislocated my shoulder-” you motion to each of these areas- “trying to fight with these.” Lifting both of your hands up, you clench them into fists. 

Feeling a sly smile tickling at the corner of your mouth, you continue. “I think you’ll find the best fighter-” you let the smile grow- “uses this.” Pointing at your head, you chuckle and cross your arms.

“That’s fine and all-” Birdie frowns- “but I don’t see how your head could defeat the Mandalorian’s rocket dart things in a fight.”

“Rocket… darts?” You gulp. The things he hides in that armor... You steal a glance over at Din.  His head is angled in that curious manner, watching your interaction with the children with great interest. You tear your gaze away, fearing your face would warm if you stared any longer.

“She means using your smarts, silly!” Winta groans.

“She is correct.” The new voice in the conversation belongs to Kuill. Grunting with exertion, he hobbles along with his cane to join the circle. The children immediately fall silent, listening reverently to the wise Ugnaught.

“Fighting isn’t everything.” Your face grows solemn with the respect that Kuill seems to elicit anytime he speaks. “Sometimes,” he grunts, “the most dangerous power… is held by the smallest among us.”

The way everyone sneaks glances with each other, you can’t help but feel everyone is in on a secret behind Kuill’s words. Discomforted, you clear your throat, letting your lazy outer rim accent slide forward. 

“Gotta secret weapon, Kuill?”

Kuill’s chuckle is interrupted by a frowning Birdie. 

“Maybe…” Birdie whines. “But we still wanted to watch a fight.”

You snort. “Stars, these kids are bloodthirsty.”

“Maybe if we asked politely, children,” Kuill grunts, “the Mandalorian would showcase some of his fighting prowess for us.”

The children burst into pleas and cheers, turning every ounce of their attention to tormenting Din into obliging them.

“It would be-” Kuill motions his cane at Din- “our honor to observe.”

Flopping his head back against the wall, the Mandalorian stares up at the sky. You bite back a grin when you hear him release a heavy, long-suffering sigh, detectable even at a distance. 

“Stand back.”

The children and villagers fall silent, crowding together, as he shifts forward, stalking away from the building. Only the heavy clank, clank of his Beskar armor is audible, echoing in the thin night air. Everyone watches in anticipation, curious as to what the Mandalorian has in mind. 

Plopping down on a blanket spread out on the ground, you cross your legs underneath yourself. A light dusting of movement against your hand startles you forward a bit. You gasp lightly, mouth falling open, as the Mandalorian’s son, the baby, crawls up beside you.

“Oh. Hello,” you chirp, taking his little three-fingered hand into your palm. “Um, ready to watch your Papa show off?”

He responds with a giggle.

Those large expressive eyes… stars! You want to turn into a pool of sugary liquid right here, right on this blanket. 

Sweet face.

Sweet laugh.

The dagger twists in your heart. Grasping onto the necklace around your neck, you swallow hard, squeezing your eyes tightly together before opening them again.

You can’t think about her right now… not without losing it. 

As if sensing your turmoil, the baby’s ears droop to the side.

“Don’t mind me,” you mumble. You take the baby into your arms, squeezing lightly. “L-let’s watch.” 

You watch as Din freezes a good distance from the bonfire. “Cara,” he shouts with a wave. 

You bite your lip, bursting with excitement when you see he has that big-ass rifle of his at the ready. He rests it pointing downwards, angling his head towards Cara as he crosses his gloved hands over the butt of the rifle.

You snicker.

Look at him. 

Trying so hard to look bored. You know good and well he is thrilled to show off for everyone. You’ve seen his bathroom. Any man that uses as many hair conditioners as him would have to be a secret show-off.

Not to mention his sparkling, eye-catching Beskar.

“Diva,” you snicker under your breath.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the start of the show.

“Toss!”

Cara heaves back, launching something small and round into the air.

Din pulls back. 

Rifle to shoulder. 

Aim.

Blast.

A thousand sparkling, rainbow-colored lights rain down out of the night sky from the explosion, just like fireworks. You passively join the clapping and cheering, smirking to yourself as the Mandalorian continues raining sparkling shots in the sky as quickly as Cara can throw them.

You glance downwards, sharing a knowing look with the baby.

Yup.

Dad’s definitely a show-off.

You think he agrees.

After several minutes of this display, Din has adequately appeased the children’s lust for excitement and entertainment. Omera and the other two pairs of parents shoo the children towards the awaiting food. You watch from a distance as Din unloads his gun, striding towards Cara.

With a sigh, you stand, holding the baby against your chest, smiling softly when Winta motions to take him.

“I’ll take him to Momma.” Winta chirps. “I can feed him!”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. Pretty sure I had his stomach growling,” you chuckle, throwing Winta and the baby a quick wink.

You clasp your hands tightly together behind you and walk over to the side of Kuill’s hut shrouded in dark shadow. A longing smile faintly brushes across your lips as you watch the commotion centered around the tables of food. Sighing wistfully, you lean your shoulder up against the wall of the hut.

This is the closest you’ve been to recreating your childhood peace in years…

There’s a part of you that wants to ask if you could hang around for a bit... But the child you used to be on those snow-covered mountains is long-gone. You cannot replace what you have lost, what’s been taken.

Besides, you would only bring danger to these people if you stayed.

You have to move on.

The clank, clank of metal rips you out of your deep introspection. You spin around on your heel, unease building in your chest as the Mandalorian strides towards you, his rifle resting carelessly across his arms.

Okay. Okay. Don’t blush. Um, just… try not think about him on top of you.

Wait, that sounded bad. KRIFF. Now you’re surely blushing!

QUICK. SABBAAC FACE.

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to focus on the present. As he moves closer, you didn’t need to see his face to know that a smug expression graced his face. You could see it in his stride.

Smirking, you cross your arms and lift your chin at him. 

“Not too shabby, Din.” You raise an eyebrow when he stops to stand beside you, letting his weapon flip to rest the end of it on the ground. “You handle that big-ass rifle pretty well, I’d say.”

He grunts, rolling his shoulders forward, only enhancing his intimidating presence that much further. Leaning against the weapon, he tilts his head sideways to stare down at you. 

“Pulse rifle,” Din rumbles, amusement lacing his tone. “And as I said before, you handled my rifle pretty well yourself, Ka’r’ika.” 

“But certainly-” you lower your eyebrows- “not to a Mandalorian’s standards.”

“Nope.” He jerks his head to the side.

“Ah well!” You sigh and throw your arms out. “Well, then, were my fighting skills at least up to Mandalorian standards?” You bite your lip to resist the smirk tickling at the corners of your mouth.

A deep, raspy chuckle slips out from underneath his helm. He leans over you as he walks past.

“Depends on which Mandalorian you ask.”

Oh.

Oh Maker! 

MAKER!

TACTICAL ERROR!

Slapping a hand on your forehead, you spin around to rush away from the hut, deeper into the hidden darkness as you berate yourself for mindlessly flirting yet. again. You would have run off to escape again, but the wafting food lures you into turning around and staying. 

That, and you’re not about to steal Cara’s bike again.

With no Mando in sight, you grab a bowl of stew. Sneaking over to an unoccupied blanket beside Omera and Cara, you curl your legs up under yourself…

…And you practically bury your nose in the bowl to hide your face when Din sits beside you to be near his son. The baby gleefully reaches his little arms out for his father who takes over feeding him.

Kriff! How could this evening get any more awkward!

“So, tell me,” Cara asks, “why’d you decide to leave Nar Shaddaa?” 

You drop your spoon, coughing as you choke on the stew.

“OH-” cough- “I, uh, you know-” cough- “got… um-” cough- “…tired of it.”

“Really?”

“…Really.”

Wow. That had to be the lamest lie you’ve ever told.

Cara stares at you, mouth tight as if considering whether or not to prod you further. Din is leaning sideways, occupied with his son, but you know good and well he is listening to every word.

You return Cara’s stare, unflinching, daring her to question you further. You’ll lie much better now that you’re prepared, thank you very much.

“Nar Shaddaa?” 

You have never been more grateful for an interruption! You shift your eyes over to Omera. 

“I’ve never heard of it.”

You snort, perhaps a little harsher than you intended. 

“Yeah, well-” you pretend to be occupied with something in your stew- “no surprise. A lady such as yourself would never work there.” You place your bowl down and tuck your knees up under your chin. “Hutt and syndicate casinos… Enough said.”

“Oh.”

You feel a bit guilty for coming on so strongly in response to a harmless statement. You feel responsible to lighten the mood, show Omera you aren’t upset. Shaking your head, you flash a manufactured grin. “Stars, you should be grateful to not know what Nar Shaddaa is like… or wow!” You pretend to gag. “The Hutts!” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Cara shrugs, swigging back something the Sorgan villagers called “Oriot Juice” that smelled suspiciously of alcohol.

“Cara…” Omera chides.

“What?”

Leaning back on your elbows, you chuckle. You begin mentally drawing away, leaving Omera and Cara to their fussing.

“What did you do there?” 

You rip your eyes to the right, into the unreadable visor of the Mandalorian. 

“You said something about… dealing cards?”

“Uh, yeah.” You blink, a bit taken aback. “For a short bit. I- uh- mostly performed.” You really hope he doesn’t prod for more details.

He turns his head away from you, and you could have sworn you heard him mumble something under his breath.

You need to shift the topic, fast. 

“I sure do miss singing though.” You flash Din a cheeky grin. “All the attention, all on me.”

He makes a noise. 

“That would be in character for you.”

You stick your tongue out at him for that. “Anyway, that guitar I brought off from Taek?” You smile slyly. “Let’s just say, through some creative finagling, I ‘acquired’ it hoping to sing on the streets to earn some cash.” 

Your grin plummets into a scowl. “Let’s just say that it didn’t pan out.” You cross your arms tightly across your chest. “Cheap bastards,” you grumble.

The Mandalorian laughs, a deep, hearty sound.

You blink, stunned by this victory. 

A laugh! Not a chuckle, you pried a full-on laugh from the stoic warrior!

Din leans in towards you, pulling you out of your elation.

“Well, we aren’t much of an audience,” he rasps, voice grainy through the vocoder, “but we’d be better spectators than what Taek provided.”

You beam. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t respond, just leans over on his side, his son tucked in beside him asleep.

You clasp your hands together. “I need my guitar!”

He looks in the direction of the Razor Crest. “Take my key unlo-”

“Nah, don’t need to. I grabbed the guitar out of the Razor Crest earlier today.”

He stares.

“But it was…”

“Yeah?”

“Locked.”

“Yeah.”

“…How?”

You blink.

“When I said I didn’t have any skills?”

He stares.

“I actually have a few…”

 “…and you really should upgrade the Crest’s security system.”

…

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

-------

You can’t believe your voice or feet or both haven’t given out!

Cara was right, these Sorganians know how to have a damn good party. When you provided the guitar, the villagers responded by pulling out their own traditional instruments. 

For hours, everyone (minus one stick-in-the-mud Mandalorian) danced, spun, twisted, frolicked, and skipped until no one could barely move. As fun as all the rowdy dancing was, your heart felt warm, full after sharing your own traditional songs: one a love ballad and the other a lullaby in the Sularian language.

Exactly what the energized children needed to calm them down and help put them to sleep.

“Thanks again,” Omera whispers as she walks past you, carrying a conked-out baby inside the hut. “Those songs were absolutely beautiful.”

You only smile.

Watching the other parents carry their children in for bed, you can’t help but feel keenly…. bitter.

This should have been your life.

Should have been your siblings’ life.

Should have been her life.

…

Imperials, go straight to hell.

You clench your hands into tight fists. 

“When you’ve lived as many years as I have-” you jump at Kuill’s voice- “you learn to recognize… patterns in behavior.”

“I-” you blink- “not sure wh-”

“Sadness. Anger. Loss. Fear.” He pauses to point his cane at you. “All I see in you. You’re on the run.”

Your jaw drops. “N-no-”

“It’s not my place to question.” Kuill, grunting, begins to move away. “I hope you find the peace… you seek.”

Was…

Was it really that obvious?!

You’re understandably shaken up after being directly called out like that by Kuill… 

You… need some space. 

Stalking, practically running, from the hut, you freeze mid-step, nearly falling over your own feet. 

There he is, both arms resting atop the fence, helmet fixated on the stars. He almost looks heroic with the way his cape swirls around his legs in the light night breeze.

Well…

Good time as any to have that conversation with him.

With a begrudging sigh, you fidget with your hands as you quietly tiptoe up behind the Mandalorian. He does not move or make any indication that he’s aware of your presence, though you know by now that he must. 

You grab on to the post next to him. Grunting, you begin scampering up the boards to try and sit on top of the fence beside him. 

“Oh,” you growl, struggling to climb up it in a dress. “Blast this damn skir- OOF.”

Two firm hands grab at your waist from behind, steadying you. 

“Easy, Ka’r’ika,” his voice, low, rumbles near your ear.

His grip releases.

You squeak something incoherent, your tongue tangling up on itself. “Um-” you nervously laugh as you balance sitting on top of the fence- “uh, thanks…?” 

He leans his arms across the board right beside you, angling his helmet to stare up into your face.

“Go to bed.” He inclines his helmet in the direction of the hut. “You should rest.”

“Hmf.” You cluck your tongue. “Always telling me what to do. If you wanted me to leave, you shouldn’t have helped me up here.”

He lets his visor drop to face the ground, and you can’t help but hear the sigh that slips out from under his helm. Admiring the stars glittering against his Beskar, you follow Din’s line of sight as he shifts his gaze upwards.

You bite your lip, uncertain of how to broach your pressing topic at hand...

“The stars,” you stall, “are so bright here. That’s the only thing I like about living outside the city.”

You have Din’s full attention now.

“They remind me of the eka-worms back home on Sularia.” You sigh heavily, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion on your shoulders. “During the darkest, coldest part of winter, the worms would twist and weave the most breath-taking, astonishing nets of webbing, absolutely littering the trees with them until the limbs would sag under the weight.” You wave your hand through the air, re-imagining them in your mind.

A smile brushes across your lips, and you glance upwards. “In the moonlight, the webs would sparkle like stardust. Weddings, proposals, everything.” You pause. “We all wanted it done under those glistening webs.”

Your eyes finally fall back to Din, and your heart squeezes at finding him focused on your face instead of the stars.

He glances away as if considering something.

“What?” you prod.

“…How did you escape?”

You shrug your shoulders, leaning as back as far as you could without tumbling off the fence. “Would you believe I only survived the Empire’s bombardment because I was a head-strong, disobedient child?”

He didn’t answer; just continued listening to your story with full attention.

So you continue. 

“I-I was twelve… Papa told me and my four siblings to run out the front door. Long story short, I went out the back.” 

You wrap your arms around yourself and take a deep breath. 

“Bombs dropped. I lived. They didn’t.” 

Your shoulders stoop even lower, collapsing in on yourself, and you find that you don’t have the energy to continue pretending that you’re okay- that your life hasn’t always been one big… hot… mess.

“I- I found Grandpa c-coming up the mountain… to see… To find us. And- I was… I was running down it.” You cover your eyes with a hand. “He was the only f-family I had left... then he went and… died too.”

Your fault. 

Your fault. 

It was all your fault.

“Stars,” you mumble under your breath, lower lip quivering as you tighten your palms against your face.

“My family… they died, too.”

You rip your face out of your hands.

“Victims of the Clone Wars.” His voice is a whisper, barely audible. 

“Well,” you sniff, roughly rubbing your eyes to hide your emotion. “I- I guess we’re not too different after all, huh?”

He shifts back on one arm, angling his body closer to yours.

“No, I suppose not.”

Maker, you feel really awful about what you’re about to bring up…

“Din, we’ve… shared a lot together in such a short time.” You purposely avoid looking his way.

You have to just say it.

“You should know that I am eternally grateful for the kindness you’ve shown me.” At that, you force yourself to face him. “I’d still be stuck on Taek if it wasn’t for you…”

His visor is glued to your eyes.

“Mando, I’m…I’m really eager to get to Keolith.” 

Liar.

“So, I’m…  leaving with Cara tomorrow.” You are taken aback at how hard it is to form the words, the pain squeezing in your chest. “Then I’ll jump on a transport.”

Silence.

“If… that’s what you wish.”

Even through the modulation, you can sense the confusion, the hesitation lacing his tone. Stars, you can’t even bear to look at him! How can you explain, make him understand you have no choice? His son’s safety, your own stupid overactive imagination… No, it just wouldn’t be a good idea to travel together.

“I’m sure you’ll be thrilled anyway to get me out of your ship,” you mumble, awkwardly laughing as you push at his shoulder.

He shifts, stepping back away from the fence, away from you.

He inclines his head to the side.

“Come here.”

Oh- OOF!

His gloves curl their way around your waist, and you slap your hands onto his pauldrons for balance. He drops your feet down to the ground, but his hands remain secured, glued to your waist. 

“Go to bed,” he rasps. “You need sleep.”

His hands abandon your waist, but the warmth, the heat left behind burns long into the night.

-------

“Hey!” you shout out Kuill’s window. “Wait up!”

Cursing under your breath, you continue tucking your shirt down into your pants as you stumble out the door. Standing beside the two speeder bikes, Cara and Din watch, arms crossed, as you approach. Your fingers fumble around the brim of you hat, lowering it down till your eyes are practically hidden from sight.

Hell, you feel lousy. You hardly got any sleep after the previous night’s conversation with Din. You know he is just another random acquaintance, the same you are to him, but…

Oh, kriffing fine.

You like him.

You’re… you’re going to miss him. 

Ah well, you’ll just have to be sure and annoy him a little extra today as a parting gift. 

“I need a ride to town.” You stop and throw your hands on your hips. “Gotta buy a few things.”

“Sure,” Cara lazily responds, throwing a leg over her bike. “More the merrier, right?”

You grin and nod. “Thanks.” You throw your leg over the seat of the second bike, flicking on various switches.

“This is going to b- HEY!”

A hand grabs your shoulder, sliding you roughly back away from the controls.

“Hold up,” the Mandalorian grumbles. “I don’t think so.”

“Din!” You swat at his hand. “Stop, no! Let me drive! You drive like an old man!”

“I mean, he could feasibly be one, for all we know.”

“Cara-”

“Din!” you growl, tumbling off the opposite side of the bike. You leap up to your feet, but it’s already too late. Din is settled down in front of the controls, watching you with his helmet inclined to the side. 

He places a hand on his thigh and jerks his helmet towards the open seat behind him. 

“Fine.” You stick your tongue out at him and spin around on your heel. “Then I’m riding with Car-”

Cara blasts off, leaving a trail of dust wafting behind her.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Din shoves out a hand, motioning again to the empty speeder bike seat behind him.

“Kriff it,” you grumble, throwing your leg back across the seat. You let your body slip down, molding itself completely to the back of his armor. You reach up, lowering your goggles over your eyes.

“Fine,” you bark, wrapping your arms around his middle. “Let’s ride.”

He kicks the bike into gear, and with a satisfying rev of the engine, away you blast into the desert horizon.

Definitely faster than expected.

“Guess you took my ribbing to heart,” you think with a grin. You let your arms relax their grip around his midsection, resisting the urge to throw your hands up and feel the passing breeze.

His hand grabs yours, pulling it back tighter around himself.

“Fine!” you shout over the noise. “Mother hen.”

He releases your hand, and you sigh, snuggling down into his cape, relaxed in the knowledge that you are safe for a few more days, as long as you are with him.

------- 

Din and Cara park out of the way in a side alley where the bikes should hopefully remain unnoticed and undisturbed. You walk ahead of them, staring up and down the main street of the outpost. You lift your goggles off your head, reading over the various shop store signs.

Ah, yes, you see exactly what you need.

“Cara, Mando!” You turn back around. “Meet you back at the bikes later!”

“Stay out of trouble.”

You flash Din a grin. 

“Always.”

Your first stop is to pick out a few new garments to replace those that flew away for a permanent vacation with the smuggler’s crew. You’ll wait until you’ve actually settled on Keolith to replace everything, but a few undergarments, blouses, pants, and gloves, and you are good to go for the time being. You stuff these goods away in your side satchel.

It… feels strange to own things again.

Next stop: weapons.

With a downright mischievous grin on your face, you enter the shop like a kid in a candy store.

“How can I help you?” 

“Yeah, I need a blaster pistol, preferably something small but still packs a punch.”

You pause, eyeing something out of the corner of your eye.

“And a vibroblade.”

Oh, hell yeah.

-------

Walking back in the direction of the speeder bikes, you turn the vibroblade over in your hands. 

“Maker! This thing’s sick.” You try twirling it in your hand, giving it a toss, cringing as it flies sideways. “Um, no one saw that,” you mumble, picking it back up. “Guess I’ll need a little, uh, practice.”

Lost in your own amusement, you march around the corner into the alleyway, focused only on the viroblade in your hands. 

“Hopefully, Cara and Din won’t tak-”

Wait.

Hold up.

Who are…?

“Hey!” you shout, throwing a hand on your hip, “I don’t know who you are, but those are not your bikes.” 

You pause, cringing inwardly. You may own a weapon again, it’s still a pretty bad idea to smart-mouth strangers…

The blue Twi’lek male and a brown-haired human female, both cloaked in black, remain motionless, leaning against the bikes with their arms crossed.

“Uh,” you hesitate mid-stride, falling dead still. “…C-can I help you?”

The two strangers share a glance.

“It’s her?”

“It’s her.”

Oh.

…

OH SHIT.

You launch backwards, hand flying to your holster, but before you have time to even think, a blaster is trained on your head. 

“Drop the blade,” the woman barks. “And carefully throw that blaster aside.”

“Shitshitshit,” you hiss through your teeth while slowly, cautiously obliging the woman’s demands.

Bounty hunters. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

No, no! You can’t- you won’t go back! Not for him!

“L-look, th-this has to be a misunderstanding-”

“Listen carefully,” the woman interrupts, speaking your full name aloud. “You’re the companion to the Mandalorian?”

Mandalorian… they’re… they’re not here for you?

You blink, mouth gaped open.

Oh, bloody hells!

What has Din gotten himself into?

“I am she,” you keep your hands pressed against the thighs of your legs. “But, specifically, which Mandalorian do you refer to? I know sev-”

“Stop being cute.” She marches over, grasping your upper arm with a steel grip.

“Hey!” you yelp against the fingers digging into your flesh.

“Against the wall.”

She pushes you towards it, sending you stumbling over your own feet. You press your back as tightly as you can against the wall, shifting your eyes in all directions for any possible escape…

Oh, kriff kriff what do you do what do you do-

“Listen carefully.” The woman takes a step back, crossing her arms carefully. As you stare into the eyes of what very well could be the reason for your immediate demise, you force your breathing to even itself out.

Stay calm.

Stay calm.

Whatever it is, you can talk your way out of it.

They want Mando, not you.

 “You assisted the Mandalorian in taking something that I must have back.”

Oh karabast.

They do want you.

“Whu-? Marek?” you blurt, mouth gaping open a bit. “Marek’s datachip?”

“It’s not Marek’s,” the woman’s voice turns harsh. “Marek is but an employee of a crime syndicate…”

“…On Nar Shaddaa.”

Your blood freezes.

…

Oh.

Oh no.

This….. this is bad.

If- if they recognize you…

You have to talk your way out.

“Listen,” your voice turns firm, commanding. “I barely know the Mandalorian. I met him on Taek. I know nothing about the chip or who he stole it for.”

“None of that matters.” The woman takes a step back. You try and hide your intense relief at the space she’s given you. You can’t appear weak, not right now.

“We only wish to have it returned.”

Somehow you seriously doubt that…

“We can cut a deal.” The statement tumbles out of your mouth before you even realize what it is you’re saying. 

“The chip- it’s in his ship, the Razor Crest.”

Bloody hell if you know where it is! He wouldn’t tell you blasted anything! But if you can stall these two long enough… it will give Din and Cara time to figure out what’s going on and save your ass.

“Well-” the woman raises her eyebrow- “I suppose we know where we are going then.” She motions you towards the bike. “Drive, but keep in mind-” she waves her blaster- “this will be at you back.”

“Yeah, no problem,” you snort, “just all part of the business, right?”

Right…

-------

You slow the speeder bike to a halt on the side of the Razor Crest facing away from Kuill’s homestead. Though you originally whined to Din about the distance, you are now intensely grateful the Mandalorian kept the ship anchored way far off from the homestead.

Keenly aware there’s a blaster pointed at your back, you step up to the ramp of the ship with a gulp.

Locked door, of course.

Thank the Maker you’ve already hacked the system once before. This shouldn’t take long… unless you happen to make a few little- oops!- mistakes that cost time. As you walk up the ramp, inwardly, you begin cycling through the racing, rolling thoughts clambering around in your head. 

“Stars! Where are you Din? They should have come back by now, found the speeder bikes gone… I drove slower on purpose. Do they know something’s wrong? Do they think I’m pranking them? Curse my mischievous nature! I bet they think I’m pranking them!”

“What are you doing?” the man harshly demands.

“Uh, I- uh- don’t have a… key on me.” You throw your hands up. “But wait! I can hack the system- no problem!” You nervously laugh.

They both share a glance.

“Fine. Hurry.”

You turn back around, smirking to yourself.

Time for a bit of stalling.

“I just have to pull on this-” Sparks.

“Re-wire this-” More sparks.

“Punch in this-” Fire.

“Get back!” The woman snarls, clamping the panel protecting the wiring closed to stop the flames from growing. 

“Get. This. Door. Open.”

“Y-yes, sure, no problem.” You fling the panel back open and start back to work.

Oh stars…

You are able to stall no more than five minutes without raising suspicion. As you step back inside the Razor Crest, you feel absolutely sick to your stomach. Having these Nar Shaddaa syndicate members enter this ship, this home… it’s violating. This ship was a place of refuge, safety after your traumatic time on Taek. And here you are- with yet another new tangled mess.

“In the cockpit,” you bark, stepping towards it. You are yanked backwards.

“He goes first. Then you. Then me.”

Biting your lip, you slowly nod your head.

You lead them up and over to the pilot’s seat, sitting down and punching on all the buttons you can find. “It should be… ahh… here it is! Oh wait, no….”

“What?” the woman snarls, clearly growing very agitated with your obvious game-playing.

“The chip! It’s gone!” You fake a gasp. “Let me check down in the hold!”

Not waiting for any commands, you practically fall down the ladder into the hold, racing towards the far wall and punching at the buttons of Din’s holo display, feigning dismay. 

“Gone! It’s- he must have it on him! Oh, karking hells!”

“Hmm.” Her face hardens. “How inconvenient.”

“Sure is!” You shrug, knocking the brim of your hat back. “Look- new plan. The Mandalorian- I’m sure you heard about how he surrendered for me… at Marek’s base.” You throw your hands out to the side.

Think, think, think.

“…So, uh, you hold me hostage. He’ll come.” You nod your head. “H-he’ll give the chip over. Especially if I talk to him.”

This- this is bad. 

Stars! This couldn’t get much worse!

The woman angles her head, eyes boring straight into your own. “Hmm, he probably won’t surrender for you…”

“…But maybe he will for them.”

You blink. 

Them.

You spin on your heel.

Oh.

Oh no.

“Hi,” Winta waves, placing the baby down on the floor. 

“Are they bad guys?” Birdie grins, pointing at the woman’s blaster.

Things just got worse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

taglist: @sana-katarn @barrissoffee77  @royalhandmaidens @dracos-jedi-marvel @sinnamon-bunn @theclonewarsbrokeme @obirain @beskar-boba @disneyjedi19 @kyjoraven @orla-dahl @babe-dont @jdjdjdididisisiei

a/n: YEAH SO THE STORY REALLY RAMPS UP FROM HERE

First things first, THANK YOU TO EVERY PERSON THAT LEFT A REVIEW ON THE LAST CHAPTER! Tumblr AND Ao3! Guys, I nearly CRIED at how sweet and kind they were! It REALLY pushed me, even through the challenging past few weeks, to write for YOU GUYS. 

Guys, this is only half of what I was planning for chapter 6! As usual, the chapter grew OUT OF HAND! So the other half will be included with chapter 7, which, you'll be thankful to know, is already mapped out and ready to be typed up! After all, I did end here on a cliffhanger of sorts, so it'd be cruel to make you wait too terribly long! 😉 Let's just say chapter 7 is going to be a lot of FUN with DRAMA. (I might have laughed/cried my butt off when mapping it out...) And a lot of ANGST. 👀 I see you, my angst-loving fans. I'm here to D.E.L.I.V.E.R.

GUESSING GAME: A new character will appear in chapter 7! This character has been alluded to already in the story! Let's just say, it's NOT what you're expecting! Any guesses?

Last note, about two weeks ago, I did a clean up/edit of chapter one. As it was my first chapter, I didn't yet have a grasp on the tone/voice of the story. I cleaned it up to make it fit better with the following chapters.

ANYWAY, see you soon! Please leave feedback here or on Ao3 (wille_zarr). (Shoutout to @sana-katarn​ for inventing the term "hutt fudge" at my request. She's out here being the real MVP.)

[pandastern]

Gravity (Bakugou x OC)

Part 1: A Huntress stalks the night

Bakugou x Vigilante!OC

Warnings: angst, explicit language, violence

Word count: 2143

Genre: enemies to lovers ; angst ; romance

When a new student makes an entrance, Bakugou has a real bad feeling. There is something about this girl that just doesnt feel right. From the flaming hair to the calculating glint in her green eyes, everything about her just pisses him off.

Little does he know that his fate is intertwined with the person he despises so much, defining his future path in a way he would have never expected.

“Hostage Situation: six civilians inside, one with the criminal on the roof at gunpoint, all of them women.”

Katsuki looked up into the night sky, eyeing the small figures on the rooftop. The criminal was standing close to the edge, pressing a gun against the temple of the hostage in his arms. It was quite high up, and the building was old, so Katsuki would have to be careful going in. One wrong explosion and the whole thing could come down, burying heroes, villains and civilians all the same. He had to admit, the criminal was smart.

“Ground Zero?”

The voice of the police officer with his tablet at hand snapped him out of his thought.

“I know the goddamn situation,” he growled, and dedicated his attention back to the victim. He’d need backup for this one, despite how much he hated it. Usually he worked alone, his quirk versatile enough to ensure success. But this was different. Green lightning hit the ground next to him and made people around him gasp and jump aside.

“Seems like they were counting on you to show up here, Ka-chan,” Deku said, straightening after his landing and clapping his childhood friend on the back. “Got your call. What’s the plan?”

There had been times when the familiarity Deku treated him with had made him go off in a rage. But now he was older and knew damn well even he needed support at times.

“Seven victims. One piece of shit with a gun holding a hostage on the roof. Rickety building,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. He’d love to just blow this vermin to bits and be done with it. But it wasn’t that kind of day.

“Fuckin’ bastards.”

“Hmm. So, we have to be careful going inside. The building could-”

“I fucking know that. That’s why you’re here, for fuck’s sake,” Katsuki snapped. “You go inside and look after the women. I’ll take care of the vermin on the roof.”

Not being in the mood for quite so many words, he stomped off. Deku knew how to work with him, so there was no need to talk strategy.

Heavy rain drummed on the asphalt, soaking Katsuki to the bone. A shiver ran over his skin as he checked where best to enter and get on top of the building, the big full moon illuminating his way. He’d worked these streets as a hero ten fucking years now. It was becoming increasingly hard to be surprised at the cruelty and oftentimes stupidity of criminals and villains, putting civilians in danger or causing chaos in his city.

Soon, he found the back entrance of the neighbouring building. It was a little shorter than the one he was trying to get on top of, but he figured he could just blast himself up there with a well-planted explosion. Quickly, he strode up the staircase of the abandoned building, taking two or three steps at a time.

He had every reason to hurry. Criminals like this never had good nerves, especially those who held innocent people at gunpoint, and as soon as Deku started doing his thing inside, the man on top would surely be alarmed.

From outside he heard screams and the sound of guns going off. Speak of the devil…

“Shit! Fucking awesome,” he hissed and quickened his step, sprinting up the last flight of stars before throwing himself against the metal door of the roof. 

The moment he stepped outside, raindrops drummed down on him like hail, the wind up here turning the water droplets almost into shards of ice. Not that he was able to feel much cold.

Katsuki let out a curse and rushed to the edge of the building. Down on the ground, he could make out some of his fellow colleagues having it out with a group of villains that had emerged from the shadows. They would be okay, he knew that. His attention returned to the man standing alone in the moonlight.

They weren’t too far apart, so his calculations had been spot on. But he couldn’t just blast up there if he didn’t want to risk the life of the sobbing woman with the gun to her head.

Shit. Great. Because he was so good with negotiating.

“You better let her go, you shitfaced bastard!” he roared up through the heavy rain. “You know damn well I’ll blast you to shit if you hurt her.”

“Fuck you!” the criminal shouted back in a high pitched voice. ”You won’t do shit! Number two hero, my ass. You can’t do nuthin’ ‘cause you can’t have her dead!”

Growling a string of curses Katsuki desperately tried to come up with a way to get up to the building without endangering the victim so he could beat the ever living shit out of that arsehole.

“Ka-chan! What’s the situation?”

The voice coming out of the communication device in his ear made him flinch.

“That fucker has the woman too close to the edge,” said Katsuki. “I’m gonna blast up there and kick him in the face before he can actually shoot. Can you create a distraction inside?”

“Uhh.” The sound of shots being fired “I’ll do my best but im under fire! Give me a minute.”

“We don’t have a fucking minute, Deku!”

This was why he worked alone. Usually. This bullshit was ripping his nerves to shreds. 

“Just do it, Deku! Make yourself fucking useful and stop playing,” Bakugou hissed into the device.

“You fucking heroes think you can do whatever you want. I’ll show you! I’ll take this bitch with me before I die!” came another shriek from the upper roof. This dude really was pushing his luck.

Through the strong rain, Katsuki watched as the burly man dragged the helpless woman closer towards the edge. Was he going to throw her off?

His body moved quickly, getting ready to either blast up there or somehow catch the falling woman.

“You better not fucking move! I’ll rip you to shreds and feed you your own shi-”

Katsuki heard something slice through air and rain like an arrow, followed by a wet thud. The world fell quiet, as if time were standing still.

Katsuki’s blood grew cold. An ice arrow had lodged itself right between the criminal’s eyes. The burly man staggered, one step, then another, dropping the weapon he had been holding. Then he fell, and with him the woman.

“Fuck!”

Katsuki flung himself into the air, the explosion of his quirk giving him the needed momentum. He grabbed the falling woman in midair, wrapping his arms around her before the two of them hit the window of the opposite building. Glass shattered and sliced Katsuki’s exposed skin as he rolled over the floor, trying not to break any of his or the woman’s bones.

“Ka-chan!” Deku’s voice sounded relieved and shocked at the same time. “What happ-”

Katsuki had no time to reply. The assassin was still out there. He knew she was. Why the fuck was she here again? He should have known better. She always got involved in shit like this.

“Take her outside!” he barked, and thrust the woman he’d just saved into his friend’s arms. “It’s her! She shot the bastard.”

Realisation dawned on Deku’s face and he turned pale. Without a word, he picked up the sobbing but apparently unharmed woman and rushed downstairs while Bakugou flung himself out of the window again. It only took a few blasts for him to get to the top of the building.

“Where are you?” he yelled into the dark. It had to be her. He knew it was her. Only one person took out villains with that kind of technique. Arrows of ice - her one signature, because they never left any traces once melted. “Show yourself!”

“No need to yell. I’m right here, Katsuki.”

A chill ran down Katsuki’s spine. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. It had been haunting his dreams for so many years now. The slight drawl to his name, the accent forming around Japanese words.

He turned to face the assassin.

There she was, untamed red hair glowing in the moonlight like a flame, her small frame outlined by the full moon. The Huntress vigilante that stalked the night.

“Artemis,” he said. His voice sounded rough.

Something painful stirred in his chest and he cursed himself. 

She still had the water bow that her quirk had allowed her to form in her hand. Green eyes gleamed at him through the black mask that covered half of her face. There was a softness to them, something he knew she held only for him.

“It’s been a while,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Don’t give me that shit,” he hissed, his heart clenching in his chest. How many times had she spoiled his cases this way? Killing without mercy and leaving no traces behind. But he knew her. The way she moved, talked, even her scent was something he could pick out of a thousand people.

She shrugged and the bow in her hand disintegrated.

“You’re welcome, by the way. If I hadn’t shot him, I wonder what would’ve happened next. Would you have blown him off the roof? Flung yourself at him and gotten her shot? Or would you have waited for him to shoot her and then blow him up?” she purred with feigned disinterest. “Either way, there would have been a sacrifice… What great Hero work.”

“Oh, but shooting him in the face and making him drop her is better?” he growled.

“I think I’ve calculated quite well though,” she replied. “I mean, you did catch her, no?”

A deep growl rumbled in Katsuki’s chest.

“Stop playing games, Artemis! This needs to stop. Soon I won’t be able to keep them from putting a fucking bounty on your head! Then every Hero and their grandma will be on your arse.”

“Ah yes, the ever so dangerous hero grandma. How frightful,” she chuckled.

"You think this is a joke? You want to fucking die?”

Artemis’ face fell into a cool mask. “I don’t need your help. Like any of you was ever able to catch me. Don’t waste your time with things that don’t concern you, Ground Zero.”

Bakugou cursed again. How many times had he had this conversation with her? Why wouldn’t she just listen? What was all this for?

“Artemis.” He spoke her name as a plea. Ten years. Ten years of running after her. Trying to understand her. Trying to get her back.

“Ka-chan!” Deku’s voice echoed through the night, followed by green lightning as the current number one hero landed next to him on the roof. Deku had visible scratches on his skin and bruises that were about to form, but Bakugou couldn’t bring himself to take away his gaze from the woman standing in front of him.

“Hello, Izuku. Fancy meeting you here,” Artemis said as if greeting an old friend. “You’ve certainly looked better if I remember right. Have the men inside pushed you a little far? You’re getting soft.”

Deku’s green eyes widened as he met the eyes of the assassin. 

“No, I held back so I wouldn’t injure anyone beyond repair.” Delu spoke calmly, but there was a rare hint of steel in his voice.

Artemis shrugged before taking a step back towards the edge of the roof.

“Dont you dare think about fucking off like this!” Katsuki growled. “You stay right where you are.”

“Or what?” Artemis’ smirk sent a shiver down his spine. She was toying with him.

“Why are you doing this, Artemis?” Deku asked.

“I have my reasons,” Artemis replied with ice in her voice. “No need for you to worry your pretty little head with it.”

She took another step back, then another.

Moving at the same time, the heroes stepped forward, but the huntress held out a hand.

“Ah, I wouldn’t.” She held up a warning finger. “Before you act, I’d like you to remind you that it’s raining. Which means you’re outmatched.”

She was right. She was so right and Katsuki hated it. In an earnest fight, he could have overpowered her, but if she was just trying to make a run for it, her quirk would undoubtedly give her the advantage in this situation. Bakugou knew that. He’d seen it happen so many goddamn times.

“Well then, gentlemen. I bid you farewell,” she said, and pulled up her hood. “Stop searching for me, Katsuki. You won’t like what you find.”

With that, she flung herself backwards off the roof.

“No!” A scream ripped from Katsuki’s lungs as he rushed forward, trying to get a hold of her, but she slipped through his fingers like water and disappeared into the night.

He’d failed again. How many times more?

[fred-frederator-studios]

Dale Pon, R.I.P.

Pretty much the most famous media advertising campaign in history is “I Want My MTV!” –the May 2020 Google search returns 184,000 results, more than 30 years after the last flight ran– and it was the result of the brain of Dale Pon.*

* As I explain in detail in the pieces below, writer extraordinaire Nancy Podbielniak was the word spark for the campaign; it was George Lois who suggested ripping off “I Want My Maypo!” Dale Pon was the person who took these notions and turned them into brilliance.

Dale persuaded me and the powers that be at MTV that he could make it work, Dale who convinced MTV programmers to recording artists to participate for no fees. It was Dale who took the paltry budget allotted and strategized how to maximize the network’s cable distribution. And finally, it was Dale Pon’s dogged persistence and genius that caused cable operators across America to beg us to please stop running the campaign before all the telephone operators quit in frustration from all the people “demanding their MTV!!!” 

My great friend –and better mentor– Dale Pon, passed away from difficulties due to Parkinson’s and Covid19. There’s no way to convey all of the ways people expressed their sadness to me today, but one of them probably encapsulated things best by saying “Complicated but brilliant, creatively inspired, strategic like chess master , we were lucky to have been touched by his talents...” All too true. 

Dale could be –to say the least– a challenging personality. Determined to win, he could be a bulldozer crushing an ant. Warm at his core, he could be beyond generous will all he had at his disposal. Unlike many others with talent and raw intelligence, he was quick to share his remarkable thinking, lavish in his ability to elevate the talents of the shy and uncertain, and as bountiful with praises as he could be lacerating with his critical observations. He loved as deeply as he was able, and a constant explorer for the meanings of life. 

When it came to the work, there was no one better at understanding media, and getting fans interested in its rewards. I don’t know if it was his methodologies and personality, or the fact that media promotion wasn’t all that well respected in the ad biz, but Dale didn’t have too much of a profile in the advertising world. I think, ultimately, he was much more focused on the work than on the publicity. So, things being what they are, what I’ve collected seems to be the most comprehensive look at his career, at least the parts that I’ve directly touch. By no means is it comprehensive, I know nothing about his radio days in the early 70s, and little about his work after I joined the cartoon industry. But all of what I have is yours, below. 

I’ll lead with what a few of his colleagues and friends wrote a few years ago for Dale’s birthday. And then, below that, all the various campaign pieces (written from my perspective, of course) I’ve recalled over the years. 

.....

April 2016, on the occasion of Dale’s birthday.

Dale Pon, my mentor and friend. Fucking smart.

Dale Pon’s been on my mind lately, as he is almost every day, because of the ways he taught me to think about …. um,everything. I’ve written about some other important mentors before, but Dale’s influence was so staggering I could never figure out how to sketch it out in anything shorter than book length.  

“Dominate the space.” (He was referring to graphic design, but it might have served as a life philosophy).

“Of course, there’s an absolute truth.”

“You remember the first thing you see, but the last thing you hear.”

“The power of three.” (Broke that rule with this list.)

“Advertising is a frequency medium.”

“You make album tracks. I make hit songs.”

I’m not sure that he ever thought of himself as particularly quotable, but as you’ll see below, I wasn’t alone in internalizing. There were hundreds more bon mots, most of which he probably forgot as soon as he said them but stuff I’ve never been able to shake off, to this day.

His resume doesn’t do him justice, but quickly… For 40 years, Dale Pon was at the forefront of media programming and promotion for many of the major media companies, CBS, NBC, Viacom, Storer Broadcasting (where we met). He specialized in radio throughout his career, but when Bob Pittman moved into cable television, he prevailed there too (“I Want My MTV!” is still returns hundreds of thousands of Google search results, 30 years after it went off the air). He was wildly successful in an advertising agency partnership with ad legend George Lois, before setting up a solo shop, Dale Pon Advertising, in New York City.

Dale was brash and loud, very, and he certainly wasn’t to everyone’s taste. The friend who first recommended me for one of his jobs called in a rage when he quit and said if I really needed a gig so badly… I knew Dale’s work from its supremacy of the metropolitan subway system for the New York country music powerhouse (a paradox if there ever was one) WHN Radio, but it hadn’t occurred to me that actual human beings created advertising, or that it took any real brain power. Dale quickly disabused me of that notion, as he sent me to his tailor to buy me my first three piece suit (more appropriate for Park Avenue media than the cut off shorts I wore to our interview).

Most of all, he was really fucking smart. And deeply, articulately, astute about media. He could tell the story of radio stations or television networks better than anyone, and persuade their audiences to fall profoundly in love, by sticking to the basic human emotions like truth, desire, love. (My favorite? “Love songs, nothing but love songs” for WPIX-FM, directly appropriated for an Off-Broadway show). He didn’t end it there, with a creative, strategic and statistical brilliance that combined, to quote Bob Pittman (from another context completely) “math and magic.”

What I appreciated most was his intense, almost overwhelming desire to teach me everything he knew at exactly the moment I was desperate for his knowledge. In fact, as I observed him with myself and others over the years, it would be fair to say that if you wasn’t interested in being taught, Dale Pon wasn’t interested in you. And, not for nothing, it went both ways. He’s was as incisive a questioner and listener as one could want. Curious, intrigued, dying to know anything on almost any subject. In my case, it meant that we generally spent six or seven days together all the years we were together in two different media capitals. Whew!

Difficult? Challenging? Exasperating? You bet. I wouldn’t trade that time for anything.

Dale’s the one who changed the course of my work life, and as Scott Webb says below, “he changed me.” It’s because of Dale that I stumbled on my understanding that I wasn’t a music guy after all, or even a TV baby, but a pop culture sponge. I wouldn’t had the chance to participate in any of the culture shiftings I got to observe first hand. Who knows, maybe I would’ve stumbled through a life of complete dissatisfaction. That’s how profound his influence was on me.

Dale’s birthday recently passed by, and stuck for cogent things to say about him, I reached out to a few friends who’ve crossed his path and might be better at expressing themselves than I ever could. You’ll notice they’re pretty powerful personalities themselves, but Dale made an impression. Boy, did he make an impression. (I left out some of those controversial moments and unproductive comments.)

Well, our friends didn’t let us down. They got to the heart of the matter in ways I never could. Thanks everyone.

…..

Herb Scannell: Mythical.

Dale Pon is mythical.

He’s the man who “wanted his MTV” and got the world to say the same. My friend Fred always claimed that he learned whatever he knew from Dale and whatever I know I learned from Fred so it all comes back to Dale. Or blame them both. Happy Birthday Dale! Forever young!

…..

Bob Pittman: The Mad Scientist.

Dale Pon is the mad scientist of advertising. Full of passion, always with a breakthrough idea and the urgency to get it done quickly with no compromises. He made a huge contribution to my successes at WNBC Radio, MTV and even Six Flags theme parks. One of a kind….happy birthday to him from a big fan!

……

Scott Webb: “Most people don’t know how to think.”

Dale Pon didn’t just change my life he changed me. He encouraged me to be brave and fearless and never stop solving problems. He is one of the smartest people I have ever met and the teacher I will never forget.

You never know how things are going to happen. After 4 years at Sarah Lawrence, one of the most expensive liberal arts schools, I was clueless about a career. My secret wish was to write comics (mostly because I had no talent to draw). Unlike most of my class at SLC my parents were basically working class folks with a yankee work ethic who expected me to not move back home after graduation.

One January evening, I was talking with my friend Betsy K who had just graduated. She had just returned home from job hunting in the city. She had an interview at WNBC Radio; they weren’t hiring but were looking for interns. “What’s an intern?” I asked. I was so naive.

I immediately fell in love with the energy of the radio station. I had to work there.

“You’ll be working for Dale Pon. He’s very demanding. Do you think you can handle that?” asked Buzz Brindle, a WNBC program director. Me? Of course! I’ve got my Yankee work ethic and my Sarah Lawrence education. I thought I was ready for anything. But I was not ready for Dale Pan.

Dale was bigger than life, louder than anyone else in the company and frequently slammed the door to his tiny office. I found him brilliant, charismatic and intimidating.

My first big assignment for Dale was to create a chart of all the radio stations in New York and rank them by ratings performance over the past 2 years. I wanted to do a great job for him but the truth was that I was terrible at chart making. I was a liberal arts comic book kid and he had me doing statistical analysis and I knew if I did a bad job I would probably face his famous wrath behind a slammed closed door. But despite my inept chart building, Dale painstakingly taught me how to read the Arbitron reports and methodically went through my work and instructed me how to correct it. I learned more from him over that 5 month internship than I had in my last 2 years of college. But my lesson wasn’t in statistical analysis or radio promotion. Dale had high expectations of me, he believed in me and he was demanding in the pursuit of excellence.

A lot of people at the station didn’t like Dale mostly because he would raise his voice to make a point or because he was passionate about his beliefs, or would not hold back his opinion when something was mediocre, pedestrian or just plain stupid. Dale expected greatness in people, work and business. His mission was to win and often people found that difficult to embrace. I, on the other hand, found it awesome. I guess he reminded me of the comic book heroes I admired so much - characters who were extraordinary and could do things other people thought were impossible. Most people at the radio station were happy to have a job and get a paycheck and could care less about being #1 but for him that was all that mattered.

It didn’t hurt that he was so smart and insightful. He had the uncanny super power of understand exactly what the problem was – and he taught me that creativity was the ability to solve problems in fresh, innovative and smart ways.

“Do you know why I hired you?” he asked me at the end of my internship. “I didn’t want to hire one of those kids who studied advertising or media in college. Those kids have been ruined. They show up thinking they already know everything - and they haven’t even had a job yet. You didn’t know anything but you were willing to learn and think. Most people don’t know how to think.”  

Those were some of the most important words I ever heard. They lit a fire of confidence and trust in myself that did not exist before and served me throughout my life, not just in work but in life.

…..

Bill Sobel: He yelled at me on the phone…no idea why.

…..

Noreen Morioka: “Good creates things, and Evil destroys it.”

There is no doubt that we all have a great Dale Pon story. Dale never did anything average. He did everything in extremes. Whether you were laughing so hard that you couldn’t breathe or wanting to shake him like a rag doll, Dale is unforgettable.

One of my favorite Dale Pon stories is when he was pitching a new name for a network. Since the channel was going to be all re-runs of a lower level, Dale named it Trash TV. I loved it, but when I presented my designs, he thought what I did wasn’t trashy enough and proceeded to get another designer to put flies swarming around the proposed logomark. When he presented his concept to the network president, he stopped at the building dumpster and pulled out garbage to bring up to presentation. Needless to say, the meeting didn’t go well, and the president was furious that Dale brought garbage into his beautiful office. Stern words were exchanged on both sides and security was called to take Dale and garbage out of the office. He called later to let me know they were going to search for another name. The network changed their name several times since then, and each time Dale would just smile. We all knew his solution was genius.

Like you, Fred, Dale taught me a lot. He taught me never to settle, always come back stronger and most importantly what the difference between good and evil was.

“Good creates things, and Evil destroys it.” Thanks to this simple Dale Pon-ism, I live my life by.

I will always have a deep respect and love for that guy. Happy Birthday, Dale. You are the true original.

…..

Tina Potter: So thoughtful.  

Dale is a magnanimous gift-giver. I once told him the Chrysler Building was my favorite building in NY, and the next time I saw him, he brought me a beautiful framed B&W print of the building! So thoughtful. I still have it!

……

Judith Bookbinder: ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

I learned a lot from Dale in a very short time.

Dale taught me that ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

If you want to make something happen, figure it out or find someone who can do it for you.

This simple wisdom is something that has served me throughout my professional life.

…..

Ed Salamon: Directness and Simplicity.  

I always appreciate the opportunity to say something nice about Dale, but the stories that first came to mind involved women, drugs, and fistfights. Or were otherwise too self-incriminating. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

The genius of Dale’s creativity is its directness and simplicity (like “I Want My MTV!”). Unfortunately that sometimes resulted in it being underappreciated.

When we worked together at WHN Radio I once heard our boss say to Dale at the end of the day “We need a new ad campaign slogan for the station by tomorrow. Take twenty minutes tonight, walk around the Village and come up with something.”

When I later started The United Stations Radio Network with Dick Clark and others, we hired Dale to create the logo, which  he agreed to do out of friendship for only a nominal fee. The logo was a distinctive type face, with the letters stuck together (“united”). Some in the company commented that it was too simple; others appreciated its genius.

……

Tom Freston: A great bunch of guys.

Dale is a great bunch of guys. Argumentative, persistent, a perfectionist, fun, difficult, and smart as hell….winning, ultimately, most of his arguments. Happy birthday.

…..

Therese Gamba: “Work smarter, not harder.”

Long before there was “Better Call Saul” it was “Better Call Dale”  when you were faced with a creative challenge.  Dale had a long term relationship with MTV Networks having been part of the launch team for that iconic channel.  So when The Nashville Network had to be relaunched  as the new home of the WWE (then the WWF), oh and it had to be done in three months, there was only one person to call.

My first meeting with Dale was over lunch at the Mercer Kitchen.  Fred had prepped me that Dale liked metrics and to be ready for a lot of questions.  But as anyone who’s met with Dale will tell you, you can never be fully prepared for the hurricane of creative energy that is Dale Pon.

I was prepared with my Venn diagram of the overlap between TNN’s current viewers and the WWE’s viewers (no surprise, not a big cross section). Then the questions started in what felt like a ping pong match at warp speed.  

Two hours into the lunch I had held my own and received the nod from Dale that I was on the right track. I was exhausted, relieved and thrilled to have passed the test. I learned that once you’ve basked in the glow of Dale’s approval, you were hooked.  I also learned that I had become a member of an exclusive club, “Dale’s World.”  My fellow club members all know the stories, share the memories and still live by what he taught us.

Dale always said “work smarter, not harder.”  That mantra has never failed me just as Dale never failed to be supportive, inquisitive and completely one of a kind!

Happy Birthday dear Dale!

(From left): Dale Pon, Anne Grassi, Scott Webb at WNBC Radio, circa 1980.

Alan Goodman: “I’ll give you 50 bucks to fuck up this guy’s haircut.”

Two stories about Dale Pon –

1. I was in Paris with Dale (who ran our advertising agency – my mentor was now my supplier) and MTV’s VP of Programming, Les Garland. Dale and Les weren’t pals. How tense was it? We had dinner together one night in Paris and Les bought us all expensive Cuban cigars. Outside, Dale waited until Les split off to go to his hotel. The first second Les was out of sight, Dale pitched his cigar in the gutter.

We had flown on 10 hours notice so we could shoot Mick Jagger saying “I Want My MTV!” Dale had already shot a number of other MTV generation stars shouting the line, and some were even biggish. But Jagger was THE “get.” We knew that once Jagger blessed our campaign by participating, we’d get anyone else we would ever want. (We did).

We waited around the hotel a couple of days until we got the bat signal that Mick was ready, and raced over to his hotel to set up. Very quickly, what was supposed to be Dale’s shoot had become Les’ shoot. Dale was pissed, rigid with anger, sequestered with me in the adjoining room forced to watch the proceedings on a monitor. I went over to him to try to diffuse the situation. I can’t remember what I told him. But I remember his response, word for word:

“Do you think I need to hear any of this right now?”

I realized why I was in Paris. I was there, as the client, to witness who threw the first punch.

I had spent every single day of the past four months in the office trying to figure out how to do a job I had no idea how to do. I was exhausted. I had zero interest in the kind of politics and shenanigans that network executives pull, and I didn’t want to be there. That’s it, I decided. I’ve had enough. I’m a writer. I have a talent. I can make a living. I will get back home and I will immediately quit.

I said nothing. I smiled through the rest of the shoot. We stopped at a bistro after we wrapped, and had a lovely dinner and wine with the crew. It was a celebration. For good reason. We had Jagger. I stayed quiet. Silent, even. No one knew of my plans.

When we reached the hotel, Dale drew me aside and sat me down.

“You’re not going to quit,” he said. What?! Huh?! How did he know? On top of everything, the man can read minds??!

“You’re not going to quit. You are at the very beginning of something that will change the world, and you will have a great career. You have to stay there and be a part of that and do what you do really well. You cannot leave. Do you understand? You cannot quit.”

He went up to bed. I went home the next day, and didn’t quit. Instead, I stayed and helped make the thing that changed the world. And it was the beginning of a great career.

2. I went to get my hair cut at Astor Place one day. I walked up to my guy, and there in the chair was Dale. I didn’t know Dale used my guy. Dale looked up at me, looked at the barber, and told him, “I’ll give you 50 bucks to fuck up this guy’s haircut.”

…..

Scott Webb (unedited): “He didn’t just change my life he changed me.”

You never know how things are going to happen.

I was a few short months away from graduating from Sarah Lawrence College with no idea what I would do for a job. I was a kid who had grown up reading and loving comic books. After 4 years at one of the most expensive liberal arts schools I was clueless about a career. My secret wish remained to write comics (mostly because I had no talent to draw). Sarah Lawrence was a great place for me. It was there that I understood how to learn. I was naturally curious and SLC exposed me to a world of ideas and brilliant people (students and teachers). But Sarah Lawrence was not a place where I could start a career path. 5 months from graduating I felt the looming pressure of finding a job and making money. Unlike most of my class at SLC my parents were basically working class folks with a yankee work ethic who expected me to not move back home after graduation.  

One January evening, I was talking with my friend Betsy K who had just graduated. She had just returned home from job hunting in the city. She had an interview at WNBC radio with a guy named Buzz Brindle. She said they weren’t hiring but were looking for interns. “What’s an intern?” I asked. I was so naive. She explained that an internship is where you work for free - for experience and to get your foot in the door. WNBC was part of NBC - one of only 3 existing TV networks at the time and my eyes lit up at the idea of of doing anything with a big media company. So I lined up a meeting with Buzz to see if I was intern material.

Buzz was sweet and avuncular and I immediately fell in love with the energy of the radio station. I had to work there. “We’re looking for interns in the promotion department” Buzz explained and I just nodded as affirmatively as possible. “You’ll be working for Dale Pon. He’s very demanding. Do you think you can handle that?” Me? Of course! I’ve got my Yankee work ethic and my Sarah Lawrence education. I thought I was ready for anything. But I was not ready for Dale Pon.  

I interned at the station 2 days a week and It appeared I was the only male in Dale’s promotion team. I reported to a woman named Anne Grassi but Dale was the boss. Dale was bigger than life, louder than anyone else in the company and frequently slammed the door to his tiny office. I had never worked in an office before. I found him brilliant, charismatic and intimidating. The other interns and I would huddle in the conference room where we did our work and wait for our next assignment.

I did many things as an intern but my first big assignment for Dale was to create a chart of all the radio stations in New York and rank them by ratings performance over the past 2 years. This was no small task - this was way before computers in offices - and required me to go to the NBC research department to collect dozens of Arbitron ratings books and laboriously extract the data he wanted and lay it out graphically. I wanted to do a great job for him but the truth was that I was terrible at chart making.

I was a liberal arts comic book kid and he had me doing statistical analysis and I knew if I did a bad job I would probably face his famous wrath behind a slammed closed door. But despite my inept chart building, Dale painstakingly taught me how to read the Arbitron reports and methodically went through my work and instructed me how to correct it. I learned more from him over that 5 month internship than I had in my last 2 years of college. But my lesson wasn’t in statistical analysis or radio promotion. Dale had high expectations of me, he believed in me and he was demanding in the pursuit of excellence.

The chart was part of his battle plan to make WNBC #1 in the NYC market and when I understood the big picture of what he was doing I felt even more inspired and willing to do anything in the service of that cause.

A lot of people at the station didn’t like Dale mostly because he would raise his voice to make a point or because he was passionate about his beliefs, or would not hold back his opinion when something was mediocre, pedestrian or just plain stupid. Dale expected greatness in people, work and business. His mission was to win and often people found that difficult to embrace. I, on the other hand, found it awesome. I guess he reminded me of the comic book heroes I admired so much - characters who were extraordinary and could do things other people thought were impossible. Most people at the radio station were happy to have a job and get a paycheck and could care less about being #1 but for him that was all that mattered.  

It didn’t hurt that he was so smart and insightful. He had the uncanny super power of understand exactly wha the problem was - and he taught me that creativity was the ability to solve problems in fresh, innovative and smart ways. “Do you know why I hired you?” he asked me at the end of my internship. “I didn’t want to hire one of those kids who studied advertising or media in college. Those kids have been ruined. They show up thinking they already know everything - and they haven’t even had a job yet. You didn’t know anything but you were willing to learn and think. Most people don’t know how to think.”  Those were some of the most important words I ever heard. They lit a fire of confidence and trust in myself that did not exist before and served me throughout my life, not just in work but in life.

Dale Pon didn’t just change my life he changed me. He encouraged me to be brave and fearless and never stop solving problems. He is one of the smartest people I have ever met and the teacher I will never forget.

.....

Susan Kantor and David Hyman were on the opposite side of their relationships with him, Susan as a long time account executive in Dale’s agencies, and David as a client. Drew Takahashi, a trusted friend and wonderful creative partner.  

I’m particularly fond of the pull quote from David’s recollections. Having had hundreds of restaurant meals with DP over the years, waitress confusion was probably my overriding remembrance.

Susan Kantor has traveled to the upper heights of television since her time with Dale Pon in the 1980s. But when you read her memoir below he prepared her well, as he did with all of us.

Drew Takahashi is a director who co-founded (Colossal) Pictures, San Francisco, one of the most creative production companies of the 1980s and 90s, and one of the key creative suppliers to the first decades of MTV.

David Hyman became my head of marketing at the MTVi Group when the company purchased Sonicnet.com, one of David’s early digital music endeavors (he’s gone on as founder of MOG, one of the seminal digital music streamers).

…..

Susan Kantor: “Lead, don’t follow”. Love, Dale”

Hands down, Dale Pon was my most influential career mentor. Ridiculously smart, enormously passionate, admirably courageous and truthfully a little scary.

We would all brace ourselves for the moment the elevator doors opened and the sound of his fiercely determined walk in his trademarked cowboy boots could be heard. With the first, “good morning” would come a rapid fire interrogation of where we were at on all the “to do’s” he had just given us an hour ago. “Why isn’t it done yet?”

Leslie Fenn-Gershon and I used to joke about putting a Valium in his Perrier so we could get through the day.

When I got to the office in the morning there would often be a “note”, on my chair written with red Sharpie marker on yellow pad lined paper (pre-email), from Dale.  His handwriting, had as much conviction as his spoken word.  These encouraging notes were meant to guide, remind, teach, mentor or simply, to show his appreciation - often complimentary, occasionally piercing. I still have them.

“Lead, don’t follow”. Love, Dale

“Let’s make things happen!” Love Dale “

“There are children and there are parents. Be a parent.” Love, Dale “

“Everyone wants to be told what to do. Tell them.” Love, Dale “

“We had a good day today. Thank you for your help.” Love, Dale

As we chased rock stars around the globe helping MTV and VH1 revolutionize the music industry, and traversed across the county to position many TV and radio stations in their market, Dale always imparted the importance of what we were doing and demanded we do our very best, every day.

He recognized my innate work ethic, enthusiasm and willingness to do whatever it took to learn and succeed – he also knew how young and naïve I was.  Ripe for mentorship and direction. I got both, and then some. The Dale Pon “boot camp” was not always pretty, but it was always colorful, impactful, memorable and most importantly, meaningful.  

Not only did he teach me all about advertising and the importance of finding the unique selling proposition and saying it as simply as possible so people would remember it, he showed me the world and how not to be intimidated by it. He made me self-aware of my talents and my shortcomings. He also taught me there was no substitute for doing the work.

To this day, I love you Dale and I thank you for believing in me and giving me the chance of a lifetime.

Belated birthday wishes and hope to see you again soon!

…..

Drew Takahashi: “…he gleefully pushed me to do stuff I hated.“

After seeing you and the MTV crew took me back to good/bad old days. I realized I missed Dale Pon.

Back in the day I didn’t know he was a mentor. I only knew he gleefully pushed me to do stuff I hated. In the end I realized you and he knew what was better for me than what I knew. Someday I’ll learn my lesson.

Steve Linden and I went to shoot with Dale for WNBC [AM]. He asked us to meet him at Windows on the World bar for drinks and dinner. He showed up two hours later and Steve and I were suitably toasted. Then he insisted we join him in a very alcoholic dinner. I was so hungover the morning of the shoot I didn’t know how I could direct the talent, Don Imus. Dale apologized for needing to shoot something first so we didn’t roll my spot until the afternoon. Saved my ass.

Many more memories. The weirdest was him in the Colossal bathroom cleaning crabs of their guts for a surprise picnic in the middle of our animation camera shoot.

…..

David Hyman: “[He] always confused the waitresses.”

Here’s mine:

Dale came up with the name of my company, Gracenote.  I think that just came really easy to him.  

For a while he was a really great teacher to me. I stubbornly couldn’t take the occasional abuse that went with it, even though it was probably good for me. I was honored to be asked as the voice over for a $30 million tv ad campaign by Dale and encouraged to do voice over work. Thrilling to be informed I had career chops outside of sales & marketing.

Dale is the only person i know that would always order two margaritas for himself (at the same time). It always confused the waitresses.

.....

With Dale Pon @WHN Radio. 1977, New York City.

It was against all odds, but my late 70s stint in country music radio hooked me up with a mentor who made the difference.

Before I got to New York’s 1050 WHN, I was aware of the station. Well aware. Sometime in 1976, my friend/future partner/father of my beloved nephew and niece, Alan Goodman, asked me whether I’d seen some giant subway posters (the top photo above). Of course, I’d noticed them, with large portraits of Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, The Eagles, Charlie Pride, Loretta Lynn, Kenny Rogers, Olivia Newton-John, Linda Ronstadt and seemingly dozens of other traditional and contemporary stars of the era. There were so many, they seemed to be everywhere. And, they were gorgeous, well designed, in a sea of drop-dead-New York graffiti, hum drum posters, homeless campers and mess, standing out like nothing we’d ever seen down there before. Too bad it was for music we couldn’t stand.

After I got the job with the station’s creative director and ad man, Dale Pon (another story for another time), I found out a bit about the thinking at the station and the advertising campaign. How did a city that was the home of the most sophisticated popular music of all time –to the likes of Duke Ellington, George Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Frank Sinatra– welcome the shitkickers in and become the second most popular radio station in the United States (or the world, for that matter)?

Dale was the supremely gifted Vice President of Creative Services, and he introduced me to Ed Salamon, the station’s innovative program director (Neil Rockoff was the General Manager who brought them together), who used a Top 40 radio approach* to country radio, upending the entire (typical New Yorker’s) notion that country music hadn’t evolved since Hank Williams.

No ordinary radio promotion guy, Dale had been a media buyer at Ogilvy, a radio upstart (a mild description) when the world switched from AM to “progressive” FM, and run radio ad sales teams. In the 80s, he would go on to successfully run his own advertising agency, and together we started one of the most famous media campaigns of all time, “I Want My MTV!”).  

Dale Pon wasn’t going to promote the station as cowboy boots and hats, like the last team did. He wanted big ratings for WHN, big ratings. They all did.

* If you’re interested, Ed’s written a book that details his contrarian, and wildly successful, methods called WHN: When New York Went Country.  

WHN Radio illustrations from top to bottom, all creative direction by Dale Pon 1977: New York City subway station double truck posters (L-R) Olivia Newton-John (obscured), Linda Ronstadt, Elvis Presley; Olivia Newton-John; Kenny Rogers; Television/Radio Age cover ads; Linda Ronstadt double truck subway poster.

.....

I Want My MTV! Early 1980s, New York City.

MTV had been on the air for six months and we’d fired the storied Ogilvy & Mather and hired Dale Pon’s LPG/Pon (a joint venture with George Lois) at my insistence. Now they were presenting their first trade campaign for advertisers and cable operators and my first big decision was being called into question. America is fast becoming a land of Cable Brats! “It’s audacious! Outrageous! Just like you guys.” George Lois was a big talker, a big seller, and a bit of a smart ass, loudmouth. He was also smart. Even though I knew he designed the “cable brats” thing, it was my brilliant mentor Dale, who’d never steered me wrong creatively or strategically, who was behind the whole thing. His ex-girlfriend, and now one of my best friends, Nancy Podbielniak, had written the copy. Besides, I agreed with Dale that generally trade advertising was a waste of time and bigger waste of money. Consumers were where it’s at, and weren’t all the tradesmen we were hopping to reach consumers too? If we had a knockout punch of consumer advertising our job would be done. I knew he was keeping his powder dry for the big show.

America is fast becoming a land of Cable Brats! There’s an incorrigible new generation out there. They grew up with music. They grew up with television.  So we put ‘em both together – for the Cable Brats, and they’re taking over America! They’re men and women in the 18 to 34 age range advertisers want most – plus the increasingly important 12 to 17 segement. The Cable Brats buy all the high volume, high ticket, high tech, high profit products of modern America. They’re strong-willed, cunning, crazily impulsive – an advertiser’s peerless audience. They look and listen and they want their MTV. And they buy, buy, buy. Rock'n'Roll wasn’t enough for them – now they want their MTV. (The exploding 24-hour Video Music Cable Network (and it’s Stereo!)

George was certainly right. It was audacious, and it was a touch outrageous. Somehow, the tone wasn’t quite right, but after the crap Ogilvy had done for us, it was way better. Besides, hidden in there was the sand grain that was going to lead us to our pearl.

.....

I Want My MTV! 1982, New York City.

I WANT MY MTV! took the phenomenon that had taken over the imaginations of young America and supercharged it into a famous brand with just about everyone in the country. I just googled [in 2010]  “I Want My MTV” and it popped up almost 4,760,000 results. Pretty amazing for an advertising campaign that ceased to exist 22 years ago.* Pretty potent.   The whole thing was the work of my mentor and friend Dale Pon. He’d been my first boss in the commercial media, at WHN Radio in New York when it was a country music station. He’d recommended me for my job at Warner Amex Satellite Entertainment Company, as the production director of The Movie Channel, and eventually as the first Creative Director of MTV: Music Television. We’d fallen in and out over the years, but in late 1981, when it came time for us to hire an advertising agency again –at first, the top dog had vetoed Dale as not heavy enough for a company like ours– with a lot of help from my immediate boss Bob Pittman, I was able to convince everyone that Dale understood media promotion better than anyone else in America. Anyone. Besides, didn’t he have “insurance” with his partner, legendary adman George Lois?

Dale Pon (via MTV: The Making of a Revolution)

No one had ever encountered an ad executive like Dale, because he had the unique ability to be completely and analytically strategic –”math and magic” Pittman might call it– and be wildly, and intelligently, creative at the same time. An almost unheard of combination, especially in media advertising. Sure, he had a volatile nature, in advertising that was often a given (look at his partner). But it was his strategic, creative abilities that really set him apart.

We’d already done our first trade campaign, the “Cable Brats,“ to the discomfort of most of the suits in the corporate marketing group (Bob and his team, me included, were in programming). But Dale didn’t buy into the efficacy of trade ads anyhow, so now were onto the big show, television advertising. The only problem was that we all recognized that an effective campaign would cost about $10,000,000. Our budget only had $2,000,000, and if we didn’t spend it quickly the corporate gods would probably take it away in the fall.

"I want my Maypo” commercials, created by John Hubley

Looking back, the core creative ended up being the most straightforward part. Dale’s closest friend and creative partner, Nancy Podbielniak had written the cable brats copy and had a tag line “Rock'n'roll wasn’t enough for them – now they want their MTV!” That rung a bell in George Lois, someone who never missed a chance to abscond with someone else’s good idea, and decided to rip off his own knock off of a Maypo campaign from the 1950s and 60s (animator John Hubley originated it as a set famous animated spots, and George had unsuccessfully knocked it off using sports stars) and presented a storyboard that completely duplicated his version. Rock stars like Mick Jagger were saying “I Want My MTV” and crying like babies, implying they were spoiled children being denied. No one was buying it until Dale let me know that there was no way he’d ask Pete Townshend or Mick to cry for us. “Pride! They need to show their pride in rock'n'roll! They’ll be shouting!” After a little corporate fuss we were able to sell it in.

AMERICA! DEMAND YOUR MTV!

Now, it was the next part that was completely and utterly brilliant. Because Dale came from the school that great creative was all well and good, but unless it could move the business needle, what good was it? In this case, the needle wasn’t ratings (cable TV didn’t have ratings in 1981), but active households, distribution for MTV. Cable operators were all relatively old guys who thought The Weather Channel was a better idea; they’d turned a deaf ear to their younger employees who were clamoring for us instead.

To dramatically simplify the strategy Dale organized, he decided to only advertise in markets where:

• There was enough penetration to justify a modest ad spend.

• But where there were critically large cable operators on the fence about taking MTV.

• And that we could afford a 300 gross rating point buy (three times heavier as any consumer products agency would suggest) for at least four weeks in a row (the traditional media spend would call for pulsing 10 days on and 10 days off).

The “G” in LPG/Pon was Dick Gershon. Along with data from our affiliate group, he crunched and crunched and crunched until he came up with a list of markets and dates we could afford. It was 20% of what we needed, but everyone figured if we could really start to knock off a bunch of cable systems, get them actually launch our network, the domino effect would solidify MTV’s hold on the market forever.

Strategy in place, the creative was back on the front burner. The basic campaign was a great way to get famous rock stars endorsing our channel, but where was the close? What would actually make the 'ka-ching’ we needed? Luckily, back in the day there was only one way to for a homeowner get anything from your reluctant jerk of a cable operator (they figure they held all the cards, why should they do anything to make life better for their consumers?). And what was it that young adults loved to do? Dale knew immediately.

No one alive in front of a television set in the summer of 1982 could ever forget

Pete Townshend, with the wackiest haircut of his career, shouting at the video camera:

“America! DEMAND your MTV! Call your cable operator and say, "I WANT MY MTV!!”

We shot the spots wherever the rock stars would have us for 20 minutes (they still weren’t really sure this MTV: Music Television thing was going to be good for them). Our director and producer, Tommy Schlamme and Buzz Potamkin, got together with some puppeteers to choreograph the 'dancing’ stereo television. I asked my partner to go into the studio to edit the music sections when they weren’t rocking enough, and –poof!– famous advertising.

Nothing to it, yes?

* For comparison, “I Want My Maypo” posts 112,000 results on Google. Or “Where’s the beef?”, another famous 1980’s campaign for Wendy’s returns 176,000 (or if you only use that phrase, which has been appropriated for all sorts of uses, you get 2,640,000).

.....

“Mee, mee, me, meeee!” MTV Networks Online, 1999/2000 New York City

MTV got Sonicnet in the middle of another transaction they thought would be more important. But as the internet heated up in the business world’s consciousness, Sonicnet.com became something they thought to pay attention to. Which meant that, as president of MTV Networks Online, I was trying to help make the thing successful.

MTV had also acquired a then-unique personalized radio application. Coupled with Sonicnet, we decided an ad campaign would supercharge the site, something large media folks like us thought was necessary. (It wasn’t.*)

Over a few objections, I hired my brilliant, challenging mentor Dale Pon to create our campaign. Dale had done our the iconic “I Want My MTV” for me in the early 1980s and constantly proved himself to be the most creative and effective media ad man in America. The stunningly talented and perfectly musical film director Tim Newman was already on our online staff (after turning his back on a career that included some of the greatest music videos of all time), so he was really the only person who we thought could direct the spots. Dale hustled our head of marketing, David Hyman, into his one and only –and perfect– voice acting job. (And, I should put in a word for the Sonicnet logo. Designed by AdamsMorioka, from a concept developed by Fred Graver.

You can see for yourself that Dale knew how conceive big ideas to bring out the best from stars. With Tim in the director’s chair, the results were pretty stunning. And, to cap it, Dale really knew how to use MTVi’s clout to reach for the stars (like Isaac Hayes, James Brown, Joshua Bell, Jewel, Pat Metheny, Sheryl Crow, Beenie Man, Gang Starr, Faith Hill, Lindsey Buckingham, Don Henley, Al Jarreau, Alice Cooper, Blink 182, Kenny Wayne Shephard, Bon Jovi, Buck Cherry, Charlotte Church, Christina Acquilera, Dwight Yoakam, The Ruff Ryders, Eve, Johnny Resnick (The Goo Goo Dolls), kd lang, Buck Cherry, Kelis, Lindsey Buckingham, Melissa Etheridge, Moby, Seal, Sisqo, Static X, SheDaisy, Hillary Hahn, Charlotte Church, Yo Yo Ma, and Sting.)

This campaign, like every other one I’d worked on with Dale over the decades, was a hoot. One of the best things to come out of my one year in the early corporate internet. 

…..

* IMHO, one of the great mistakes media companies made during Web 1.0, was thinking that their traditional audience reach would give them huge advantage in building web destinations. They’d made the exact same mistake in the transition from broadcast to cable. It didn’t occur to them in either era that a basic misunderstanding of the newest medium –not knowing what the audience wanted from the upstarts– would not attract anyone to their websites.

And, by the by, the same mistake has been made from popular websites bungling the transition to mobile. And, so it goes.

[continuallycrow]

i’ll be your breath if you can be mine

final entry for casphardt week 2019 - wedding, celebration

on ao3 here

when the dust settles, the immaculate one is dead.

caspar and linhardt go home.

When the dust settles, the Immaculate One is dead.

It bleeds, and yet Linhardt struggles to tear his eyes from it. The green fluid shimmers in the dying firelight, reflects the figures of Byleth and Edelgard still clinging to one another before the creature’s lifeless form. The few remaining church soldiers are scattered across their ruined battlefield, weapons slowly falling from hopeless hands. The Adrestian forces are already moving in, taking captive those who will not come willingly, but Linhardt predicts those will be few and far between. After all, with their saints gone, they have little left to follow.

His crest, which through the battle has been activating all on its own, a beacon for those seeking his help, now lies cold at his wrist. He wonders, for a moment, if it’s changed. Cethleann is no more. It would make sense that her power within him has died, too.

He can’t quite bring himself to look.

A clang of metal on stone just behind him is enough to startle him in the overwhelming silence that seems to have blanketed Fhirdiad since the fall of the beast. He spins, just in time to catch Caspar (whom he was certain had been on the other side of the courtyard, how had he made it all the way here?) as the shorter man drops to his knees. Thank the goddess that his faith isn’t completely spent, because it’s obvious that Caspar needs him now.

“Easy, Cas, easy. Breathe for me."

There’s blood on Caspar’s face, and his breaths come in ragged and short, but at least he is breathing. He shakes, and buries his head in the folds of Linhardt’s tattered robes, worn bare and ingrained with years of dirt, with almost six years of kneeling in the midst of raging battles and saving the lives of his friends. As he envelopes Caspar in warm healing light, his love slumps against his chest and, hopefully for the last time he’ll ever need to, Linhardt closes his wounds, soothes his pain and quiets his sobs. Caspar was the first life he ever had to save, and in this moment he swears to himself that he will also be his last.

They ride back to the monastery in one of the supply carts. For once, Caspar is the one who spends the time asleep, while Linhardt holds his head in his lap and continues to comfort him, both with magic and with soft touches of scarred hands, entwined, never letting go. Never again.

Late at night, he whispers in his ear to settle him as he dreams. “We won, Caspar. We won the war.”

Days are allowed to pass by without action, for the first time since they were little more than children. The halls and gardens of Garreg Mach bear an air of serenity, talks of peace plans and cathedral bells floating by on the wind. When the hurt are healed and the final ally returns home, a ball is planned for the night the Garland Moon rises in the sky.  Linhardt writes home, and within days, a parcel arrives with new evening clothes, as he’s long since grown too tall to wear anything from his academy days.

It feels like freedom, to dress in something that isn’t armor-plated or woven through with protective charms, so much so that he can’t even begrudge his father’s taste, the ruffles in the shirt silk and the ridiculous, ornate cloak that falls past his knees. In front of the mirror, he thinks of what Caspar would say if he were to leave his hair loose, but then, there is nothing to hide from now. Besides, Caspar’s habit of untying it when they’re alone is something he doesn’t wish to miss out on ever again. So he takes a white ribbon and twists a simple braid, tied at the end.

Caspar wears a waistcoat the same blue as his eyes, and Linhardt realises he wants to look at Caspar without his armor every day. Years of wielding heavy weapons have made him broad and reliable and beautiful, goddess, so beautiful he never fails to take Linhardt’s breath away. The veins in his arms when he rolls up his shirtsleeves make Linhardt’s knees a little weak, and all the more so when, after the feast when the band begins to play, his lover takes him into those strong arms and leads him to dance. In all their years together, they have never been able to dance, but the moment of uncertainty is soon forgotten when something in Linhardt tells him to draw Caspar close and take the lead.

Perhaps it’s Cethleann. The legends claimed she loved to dance. Though her crest no longer glows within him, perhaps a little of her is left somewhere.

Tonight, something takes hold, and they spin together, bodies pressed close. Other pairs surround them, and as the wine flows, the dances get faster, wilder. Their friends trade partners and laughter and happy, happy tears, but Linhardt is content to simply hold Caspar close. That is, until the shorter man is torn away from him by a giggling, flushed Dorothea, and he finds himself relieved of a dance partner before he’s quite realised what’s going on.

It’s all planned, more or less. Dorothea knows what he’d like to do tonight, and she’ll give Caspar a push in the right direction when it’s time, or so he hopes. The good thing about Dorothea is that she’ll do a lot for love, regardless of whether it’s her own or that of others. She’s as ready as Linhardt is, and thus, all he can pray for is that Caspar wants this too.

The climb to the top of the goddess tower has never seemed longer. He’s thankful for the cloak after all, as he leans against the balcony and gazes up to the stars. All there is to do is wait, and it seems like an age before he hears the echo of telltale heavy footsteps making their way up the spiralling staircase.

“I knew I’d find you here.” Caspar’s voice is quiet, heavy with tiredness. Without even turning around, Linhardt can tell that he’s smiling, just a little. “Of course you did. I told you, one day, I’d wait for you here.”

“We were nineteen.” Caspar has come up behind him, taken his place at his right side and pressed up close there. Linhardt turns his attention from the night sky to his lover, and finds those beautiful eyes, the colour of the sea that his birth-month names, gazing up at him in the moonlight. He smiles, and a hand comes up to cup Caspar’s face, to hold that contact for a moment he hopes to repeat over and over. “Nineteen. Awake in a fortress in Adrestia, where everyone else was asleep. You should have been sleeping too, and yet, you lay awake and asked me to tell you stories.” “You tell wonderful stories.” Caspar blinks slowly, a small smile twitching the corners of his lips. Linhardt decides he would quite like to kiss those lips, and so he does, only briefly, but relishing in the knowledge that he can now kiss Caspar’s lips whenever the desire strikes him. “I told you the legend of the tower.” He strokes the other’s cheekbone, and something must touch a nerve, because Caspar shivers for reasons that can’t possibly be the temperature. If he were cold, he’d be wrapped up in Linhardt’s cloak by now. “The stories of all the lovers who have sealed their fate up here.”

There’s silence for a moment. “You promised me we could seal our fate, too. But, Lin, it isn’t the Ethereal Moon now. It isn’t the right time.”

Linhardt bites his lip, and retrieves something small from the pocket deep within his clothes, but doesn’t show it to Caspar. Instead, he takes his hand. “There are other ways to commit to someone, Cas. A thousand ways to tell them you love them, and wish to live out your days in one another’s embrace.” He turns Caspar’s hand palm-up in his own, and in his palm, rests the ring. The silver almost glows in the moonlight, the inset stones a deep, bright green. Caspar’s mouth falls open, but, for the first time in Linhardt’s memory, he appears speechless.

“I… Caspar, I have been in love with you in every memory I have regarding the two of us.” The words come easily, now. It feels as though a door has been unlocked, and beyond it, are all the words Linhardt has waited all these years to say. “I can’t tell you when I realised it, but I can tell you that I am more than certain of many things. The first is that I would follow you, to the ends of the world and back again, through all of your plans and your adventures and the paths you intend to follow. I also know that, when we tire of the tracks and trails, I wish to remain beside you, and for you to wake in my arms, and fall asleep there, each morning and every night.”

“Lin- I-” “Let me finish, Cas, I have been trying to give you this speech for years, goddess, I…”

It’s too late, though, there are tears, and the ornate proposal in Linhardt’s mind is taken off course by Caspar, wrapping arms around him and easing him down to his knees, because he’s trembling like a sapling in a rainstorm, and falling on the stone floors would hurt too much to think about. Caspar produces a handkerchief and wordlessly dries Linhardt’s eyes, takes him into an embrace and a kiss.

“I appreciate the speech. You know I love to hear you talk. But what I love more than speeches is you, Linny. When you wake up in the morning and the first thing you tell me is that you missed me. The way you somehow know I need healing before even I do. You’re at least three-quarters of the whole reason I’m alive and without you, I’d be lost. I’d be missing a real big piece of myself - the part that I know you’re keeping safe right here.” Caspar’s hand presses to Linhardt’s chest, just over the spot where his heart is threatening to beat right out of his ribcage. “You don’t need to wish for things like forever with me. I’m already sure that I’m never, ever leaving you, you utter, hopeless, beautiful, romantic, idiot. ” He laughs, and pulls Linhardt close.

They’re both crying now, but the tears are no longer hot, frustrated, hurt ones. Caspar’s are of joy, and Linhardt’s something like relief. The latter takes a few deep breaths before he lifts his head, and takes the hand that he pressed the ring into only moments. Caspar fans out his fingers and Linhardt plucks the jewellery from his palm.

“Caspar von Bergliez… will you marry me?”

They wed one afternoon drenched in sunlight and joy, a few days before Caspar’s birthday, beneath an ornate archway in the gardens draped in white silk and red roses. Linhardt keeps composure all through his vows, and finally spills out all the things he wanted to say in his proposal. This time, Caspar cries through the proceedings, and doesn’t stop until they’re pronounced married and Linhardt can kiss him as petals and rice rain down upon them.

The war is over. Peace is upon Fódlan, and, from the ashes and rubble, for Linhardt and Caspar and all those around them, a new world is born at last.

[aliciameade]

Baby - Ch. 17 (Epilogue)

Title: Baby Author: aliciameade Rating: *** M *** Pairing: Stephanie Smothers/Emily Nelson Summary:  That tearful kiss shared between Stephanie and Emily wasn't their first—and it certainly wasn't their last.

(Chapter 1)

Also on AO3

This is it, my friends. Thank you for taking this little detour from the movie’s plot of missed opportunity with me. It was an absolute joy of a story to tell!

Life with Emily is everything Stephanie had dreamed it could be.

They spend the first several weeks turning their house into a home, furnishing and decorating it beyond the minimal things Emily had done while she waited. It’s fun to hang curtains and bicker and compromise and then kiss when they’re finished. They go shopping to fill their closets and drawers since everyone arrived with little more than the clothes on their back. They take the boys to the market to pick out fresh produce. They hire a tutor to start teaching the boys Greek so they’ll be more prepared to re-enter school come September.

They hire one for themselves, too, and Stephanie’s perpetually annoyed that Emily’s better at it than she is. “I’ve had more time to practice, μωρό μου,” Emily says when Stephanie gets too frustrated. It doesn’t really help her irritation, but she kind of loves that Emily already knew how to call her “baby” in the native tongue before she’d arrived.

They both take up small part-time work. Not out of necessity, of course. They have some $3.5 million tucked away in bank accounts throughout the Mediterranean. It’s only to break up the days and keep hands and minds busy with activities they enjoy. Stephanie spends three mornings each week at a bakery. She loves it, and they also never need to buy bread at the market.

Emily volunteers at the youth center that organizes the soccer league Miles and Nicky join. It makes Stephanie smile to herself every time they and the boys get on their bicycles to head down the hill for practice. What would Darren, Stacy, and Sona think? Emily Nelson voluntarily working with children! Emily Nelson would never. Dillon Reid, however, loves it.

She finds herself wondering more than once what those three might be up to. If they pretended to care when Stephanie and the boys disappeared, too. If they gossiped and tried to start rumors and if any of their rumors were accurate. She wonders if her dedicated vlog audience misses her. She wonders how Sean is faring in prison. She thinks about maybe sending him a note, an anonymous one of course, in a year or two simply informing him that Nicky is safe. He’s surely heard what happened; maybe he’s even been questioned on the matter of their disappearance. Maybe he finally figured out what really happened.

They keep an eye on news from the United States and read The Warfield Observer online over a private VPN connection as the stories about the search for the single mom and her two boys who disappeared without a trace become shorter and shorter and move deeper down the page until the last one, just two paragraphs long, states that the search has been called off and the local police and FBI still have no leads.

They buy a boat; not a yacht and nothing outlandish, just a twenty-six-foot daysailer that lets them get off the island and onto the sea to relax in the sun, to let the boys snorkel off-shore, to fish like the locals. Neither of them knows how to sail it so they take lessons until they can.

The first time they try it without their instructor, they’re excited. Their neighbor agrees to take the boys for the evening and Stephanie packs a picnic of fresh fruits and cheeses and a bottle of wine. They get the craft out of the harbor and into the bay under the starry sky to make love, only to have the wind not be in their favor for the return. Their lack of experience quickly devolves into frustration on Emily’s part and helpless amusement on Stephanie’s as they drift. Stephanie repeatedly tells Emily, “Just use the outboard, that’s what it’s there for,” to which Emily replies, “We’re sailing. We’re supposed to sail.”

Stephanie kisses away her frustration and convinces her to give in to the convenience of the motor and Emily immediately books more advanced lessons with their instructor so it never happens again.

She learns new things about Emily and herself every day.

She learns that Emily likes to wake up early to watch the sunrise over a strong cup of coffee from their balcony before going for a run.

It’s an intense route, Stephanie learns the first time she joins Emily on her morning workout. There seem to be no such things as flat roads in Oia and if they’re not running uphill they’re climbing stairs so they can run down and back up the next.

“Καλημέρα, Dillon,” the elderly woman who lives on the corner says with a wave as they pass. “Morning,” Emily replies with a smile, sometimes in English, sometimes in Greek. She sits by the road every day in a rocking chair working on something; knitting, weaving, cleaning vegetables. “Καλημέρα, Alyson,” she waves on their way home. Her name is Antonia and she adores their boys. She looks after them sometimes and they always come home filled with local folklore stories to share, along with a homemade sweet.

Stephanie finds herself thinking more and more often that this is it: this is what The Greats meant when they wrote of paradise.

She’s thinking of it as she sits on the floor of their home trying to learn yet another game the boys have invented involving dice, a bouncy ball, and a plastic toy horse and glances up to see what Emily’s doing; all she’s doing is watching them with a soft smile on her lips.

“Connor, baby, come upstairs with me for a minute,” Emily says and stands, holding out her hand for Stephanie’s son to take. “You, too, Devon.”

“Why?” Miles asks as he pops up and skips over to her, followed by Nicky.

“I want to talk to you.”

“You can’t talk to them here?” Stephanie asks from the floor, confused and a hair suspicious as to why Emily needs to take their sons upstairs to talk to them as if they had a secret to share.

“It won’t take long,” Emily says with a smile before they’re heading upstairs.

She hears them above in Miles’s room; there’s a squeaky drawer in his dresser and she hears it open and close followed by several minutes of silence.

It makes her nervous, though she can’t pinpoint why and she plays with the dice while she waits, rolling and re-rolling to see if she can get all four of them to come up the same.

She looks up when she hears them coming back down the stairs and she can’t help but notice that both boys have their hands behind their backs doing a poor job of hiding what they’re holding. Emily’s aren’t behind her back but she can tell something’s in her hand by the way her fingers curl and Stephanie’s eyes snap to hers.

“Go on,” Emily says with a nudge to the boys’ backs once they’re in the middle of the living room floor where Stephanie still sits.

“These are for you,” Nicky says with stately purpose as he thrusts his arm out, a bouquet of yellow daffodils and purple crocuses in his fist.

“Oh, thank you,” Stephanie says as she accepts them. Now she really is nervous because clearly, there’s something going on. “What about you, Smooch? I know you’re hiding something, too.”

He nods and reveals a folded up piece of paper, the same one Stephanie remembers him snatching from her to hide their first day in their new home. He unfolds it and it takes a couple tries to get it right-side up and facing Stephanie and when it does, her voice catches and her eyes tear.

It’s a crayon drawing, very clearly done by Miles and Nicky of all four of them holding hands, Emily and Stephanie in the middle. Across the top in sharp, uneven capital letters is written, “Can we be a family?”

“So, how about it, baby?” Emily says after a few seconds when Stephanie’s gaze lands on her, now with her hand up and an open ring box sitting in her palm, its diamond glittering in the sunlight filtering in through the windows.

Proper words don’t seem to come to mind. Her vision blurs with tears and she can see Emily’s shape as it kneels to join her on the floor. Arms wrap around her and she’s already nodding when Emily whispers, “Marry me?” She feels the boys join in, hugging her from the side and from behind and she’s never felt so whole.

“Yes,” she finally manages. “A thousand times, yes.”

The end

[filmfanatic82]

AO3 Link (HERE)

Chapter 3

“I would have walked through fire to kiss your lips

Do you still think about it, of what you did?

Still see your old apartment, like a bad trip

Wish I could forget all the places we've been

Hard and heavy whiskey goodbyes

Boy, you know how to make a girl cry

Was sleeping in a bed full of lies

And now that I'm older, I can see why”

-- Hope by The Chainsmokers

__________

Penelope can’t stop staring.

She has tried her best to for the better part of the last thirty minutes now, but every time she re-focuses her gaze onto something else-- anything else-- her eyes can’t help but wander back towards that yellow sweater. The pristine woolen yellow sweater that lacks the last six years of rips and stains that it’s clone has come to bear. 

The sweater that still belongs to Josie Saltzman.    

And, of course, the alcohol isn’t helping either.

Even though Penelope had performed a sobering spell before leaving Hope’s dorm room and heading off to her classes, she can still feel its lingering effects on her overall inhibitions and self-control… 

Or, better yet, lack thereof.

She knows she shouldn’t stare. It’s a rookie mistake, not to mention, also dead give away that something isn’t quite right with her.  

But, then again, how can she not?

It’s all so surreal. The classroom. The students. Even Dr. Bridges standing in the front of the blackboard, droning on about the history of secret covens within colonial America. Penelope’s been here before and yet… she hasn’t.

At least not in this version of reality.

By now Penelope should be en route to Belgium, under the guise of attending some hard to pronounce, witches only boarding school and not sitting here, in class. She should be in the process of tracking down Caroline and further pouring herself into any and all ancient texts that contain any reference whatsoever of the merge. 

But she’s not. 

Because this time around, leaving isn’t an option. Not without Josie safely by her side.

Penelope lets out a small sigh as she runs her hands through her hair and tucks a few loose strands behind her ears. She pulls her eyes away once again from the yellow sweater and glances over at the relic of a clock hanging above the classroom doorway. 

Only fifteen more minutes to go.

Fifteen more minutes before she can get another brief respite from the day-to-day mundanity that is school. 

God, how Penelope hasn’t missed this part. The pure and utter boredom of sitting around, hour after hour, day after day, pretending to listen to trivial pieces of useless knowledge that bear little to no importance in the world outside of the Salvatore School. 

Who the hell cares about knowing all of the names of the witches who founded the Oakwood Coven? Or which species of newts can be found in the eastern woods of Romania? 

No one. That’s the real, harsh truth. Not one single, fucking, soul. 

Nothing that Penelope learned during her first go-around at Salvatore had prepared her for what Hope and she were forced to encounter. Especially given that Alaric and the rest of the teachers operated under the asinine belief that teenagers had no need to learn defensive magic.

Thank god for Caroline. If it hadn’t been for her and her brutal, seven days a week, training regime, Penelope wouldn’t have even lasted the first six months within the real world. Or, better yet, had the foresight to use the morsus curse when fighting for her life against…

Penelope’s eyes wander back yet again towards Josie as her hand drifts up to trace her now non-existing scar. 

“Alright, folks. Enough on the lunar cycle for today. Let’s wrap things up a little bit early, shall we?” Dr. Bridges announces from the front of the classroom. “Remember, we will be discussing chapter 4 tomorrow of the Liechtenstein text, so please make sure you’ve read it.”

The sudden sounds of textbooks shutting and chairs scraping against the wooden floor snaps Penelope out of her thoughts and back into the reality of the moment. She lets out another sigh, this time accompanied by a crack of her neck.

“Can you get any more stalkerish, Satan?” Lizzie says, drawing the attention of those few students who have yet to leave the room as she does.

“Fuck me,” Penelope mutters under her breath and shuts her eyes, taking the briefest of moments to collect herself. 

Liz. 

No. She doesn’t go by Liz. Not yet at least. The shorter, more mature version comes later. After their first, real-world encounter with one another. 

It had been around the time of Hope’s 20th birthday. They had been camped out in a small town near Vienna for well over four months tracking a dead-end lead when the blonde-haired girl had shown up. At first, Penelope thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. That it was just an odd coincidence and nothing more. Austria was chock-full of icy blondes with piercing blue eyes. 

But then the girl approached Penelope in the darkened back corner of the local pub and simply uttered the phrase “Hello, Satan” and all lingering doubts instantly dissipated. 

It was indeed Lizzie Saltzman. Or, as she had re-introduced herself as “Liz” because Lizzie was someone who frankly didn’t exist anymore. Not after all that, she had borne witness to in the events of the past few years.  

Liz had sweet-talked her way into snagging the two of them a bottle of Bulliet from the bartender, which Penelope could only fathom the price tag given the scarce rarity of non-local spirits, and the two proceeded to drink as they talked for what seemed like a lifetime. It was the first-- and sadly only-- honest conversation that Penelope had ever had with the girl that once had wished she had never existed. 

As they drank, Liz had filled Penelope in on what had transpired post the Triad invasion and the irreversible side effects that the tainted bullet had had on Josie. She somehow managed to recounter the horrific events one by one, devoid of any signs of real emotion whatsoever, except for the noticeable unsteadiness of her hand every time she brought her glass up to her lips and took another sip. And Penelope sat there and did nothing more but listened. There had been a part of her that was dying to unleash her mountain of unanswered questions beyond the blonde, but somehow she sensed deep down inside that this wasn’t the time. 

That Liz just needed to talk.

It wasn’t until they were 3/4th of the way through the bottle, did Liz work up the nerve to ask about Hope. The question came so buried within their conversation that at first, Penelope thought it was a mistake. Merely her tipsy subconscious playing tricks on her. But Liz asked again. This time as clear as day. 

And Penelope couldn’t help but revel in the way that Liz’s face lit up as their conversation turned towards Hope. Liz seemingly wanted to know every last detail about the tribrid and yet, all the while still tried to keep some of her emotional cards close to her vest. But it didn’t matter. Penelope could read right through her anyway. There was a deeper reason for Liz’s sudden curiosity. One that Penelope, unfortunately, knew all a little too well. It was the same exact curiosity that had plagued her ever since the moment she left the Salvatore School. The one fueled by late-night thoughts and the endless “what if” scenarios that left unchecked could drive a person insane.

So, Penelope took a risk. A calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless. With a long sip of whiskey, she looked Liz dead in the eyes and revealed to her that Hope was madly in love with her. 

Without missing a beat, Liz smiled back and responded that the feeling was more than mutual… in fact, it had been for most of her life. 

The conversation abruptly ended soon after those words with Liz being suddenly pulled away by a phone call and then rushed goodbye. There had been a promise made that she would be in touch shortly for yet another round of drinks and late-night confessions, but unfortunately, it never happened. 

The news of Liz’s death came just a few weeks later.  It had been on the tip of Penelope’s tongue a million and one times to let Hope know about the rogue encounter, but she could never find the right moment to do so.  

“Uh… Eww. No thanks.” 

Penelope opens her eyes, allowing herself to take in the view of Lizzie Saltzman standing before her. A set of icy blue daggers stare right back along with the all too familiar arms folded across the chest stance that all but screams ‘I’m openly judging you’. 

It’s classic Lizzie. And God is it a bittersweet sight for sore eyes. 

The slightest hint of all-knowing smirk slide across Penelope’s lips. “Hello, Saltzman.” 

“I’ve told you a thousand times already. Leave my sister alone. Got it?” 

But Penelope doesn’t respond. Instead, she stands up from her desk and goes about packing up her belongings, never once letting the smirk drop from her face. It’s a deliberate move and one that Penelope more than knows will elicit the type of reaction that she needs in order to move the game along.

“Did you hear me?” Lizzie huffs out, slightly more impatient than before. 

Penelope still doesn’t bite. She maintains her composure as she pushes her desk chair in and then turns to fully face Lizzie head-on, locking her eyes in on the blonde. A momentary silence falls between the two of them as Penelope continues to smirk and watch as Lizzie fights against the ever-growing discomfort. 

“What?” Lizzie growls. She pulls her eyes away, pretending to glance at the ambient chatter coming from the nearby hallway, not able to withstand another second more of Penelope’s unsettling gaze. 

“Quick question for you… Why’d you let Roman escort Hope last night?” 

Lizzie blinks and shakes her head in slight confusion. “Huh?”

“At the pageant. You had the choice to escort Hope yourself after Landon was a no show. And yet you decided to let Roman step in instead? Why? You practically bent over backward just to ensure that Hope won. Why not be the one by her side?”

“I… I didn’t… How did you…” Lizzie grasps at words, trying her best not to appear too thrown off guard. 

“If I were you, I would’ve gone for it,” Penelope replies with a shrug. “Nothing wins a girl over more than being there when she needs you most.” 

Penelope throws in a playful wink for added measure as Lizzie continues to search for something-- anything-- to say in response. But all she can do is stand there, staring back at Penelope in complete and utter shock. 

“See you around, Saltzman.” 

And with that, Penelope up and walks out of the classroom as her smirk grows even wider than before. 

__________

“Penelope! Wait!” 

Penelope stops dead in her tracks as the sound of Josie’s voice echoes out from behind her. She’s been wandering the downstairs hallways now for the better part of the last hour, allowing herself to just get lost within the steady stream of Salvatore students. Sure, it’s not the most productive use of time, but it doesn’t matter. After the unexpected face-to-face with Lizzie, Penelope more than needs the space to sort through the ever-growing tidal wave of conflicting feelings brewing deep within the far depths of her mind.  

Penelope slowly turns around and instantly spots Josie battling her way against the dense sea of uniform-clad teens. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Josie responds a bit out of breath as she breaks through the last wave of students and joins Penelope. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“You have?”

“Of course I have. I’ve been trying to find you ever since the end of Medieval History… How on earth did you know that?”

“Know what?” Penelope responds slightly confused.

Josie gives a quick scan of the passing crowd for any signs of big ears and then grabs Penelope by the arm and pulls her into a nearby nook. “That Lizzie secretly likes Hope.”

Penelope can’t help but let a harsh chuckle slip out. Of course, Josie had overheard the exchange. She’s always has a tab on Lizzie whenever they’re together. Just like a mom of an overly mischievous toddler. One eye on them at all times, holding their breath and waiting for the next tantrum.

And it’s this-- Josie’s Achilles heel== that will lead to her ultimate downfall. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing. It’s just…” Penelope trails off, stopping herself before she inadvertently opens Pandora’s Box. “I guessed. That’s all.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I…”

“Enough with the bullshit, Penelope. You and I both know you’re good, but you’re not that good,” Josie fires back with an underlying bite to her voice. “Tell me the truth. How’d you know?”

Penelope runs her hands through her hair and exhales a breath of air that she didn’t even realize she was holding onto. 

The truth.

Two words that are so simple yet so powerful. For Penelope, telling the truth has never been the easiest route when it comes to Josie. No. How could it be? Speaking the truth meaning running the risk of inflicting long-lasting pain. The kind of pain that leaves invisible scars along the soul. 

“Okay. You’re right. It’s wasn’t just a guess,” Penelope responds. “It was also Hope.”

“Hope?” Josie quirks an eyebrow at the mention of the tribrid’s name. “What about Hope?”

“She’s the one who told me about Lizzie. Apparently whatever went down between the two of them during the Miss Mystic Falls pageant opened her eyes to things that up until this point she’s been blind to… Or something like that.”

“And she told you this?”

“Don’t look so surprised, Jojo,” Penelope says channeling her old 16-year=old self for a brief moment. “I make quite the good confidant. You of all people should know that… I still haven’t told a soul about how you’ve got a secret kink for handcu--”

But before Penelope can finish her sentence, Josie clamps her hand down over Penelope’s mouth as her cheeks ignite with a noticeable reddish hue. “Enough… I get it… So Hope feels the same way?” 

“Without a doubt.” 

“Interesting…” Josie replies. “I always had a hunch that there was something there between the two of them… Too bad Lizzie will never act on it.”

“How are you so sure?”

Josie shrugs. “It’s Lizzie. No one knows her better than I do.”

“Then I guess I’m just going to have to push Furball to make the first move.” 

Now it’s Josie’s turn to chuckle but unlike Penelope’s, it’s filled with nothing but an abundance of warmth. And Penelope can’t help but smile at the way that Josie’s nose crinkles up as she does. 

God, how she has missed this. 

“Okay. Now it’s my turn… What’s so funny?” Penelope asks.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Josie matches Penelope’s smile. “I can’t put my finger on it, but… I don’t know… You just seem different somehow.”

“Different in a good way?” 

Josie bites down on her lip as she gives a small nod. “Yeah. I think so.” 

“Well maybe I’m trying to turn over a new leaf,” Penelope responds nonchalantly. 

Josie reaches forward and ever-so-gently tucks a loose curl of Penelope’s raven hair behind her ear and then lets her fingertips linger for a few moments upon Penelope’s cheek. Penelope feels her breath slightly catch as she fights the urge to fully lean into it. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” Penelope eagerly replies.

“No more lies, okay?” 

And instantaneously, Penelope’s whole body stiffness. No. Not that… Anything but that one request. It’s the one promise she can’t uphold. 

Penelope swallows down the dry lump of emotions bubbling up within her throat and then ever so subtly moves her hand behind her back and crosses her fingers. “Okay.” 

“Good.” Josie smiles in return. Penelope starts to open her mouth to say something-- anything-- more, but before she can manage to utter a single word, the bell rings.

“Shit. I’m going to be late to History of Ruins,” Josie says as a look of panic sweeps across her face. “Let's talk later… Maybe during study hall?”

“Sure.” And once again, Penelope finds herself utterly frozen, unable to do anything more than watch as Josie disappears from sight. 

God, is this going to be harder than she ever imagined.

[homebody-nobody]

We pair one, right? How about...uhh... "People lie all the time" and, uh... "real smooth, tripping over air" Not sure if that's what you meant and kind of late to the party but there you go

Hi hello I am a  trash  blogger who had finals… and then ADHD. I’m assuming this a prompt which like !!! thank you !!! I never get sent these !!! Since you didn’t send me a pairing and my blog Is The Way It Is I’m assuming you’re a bellarke fan or at least tolerant of said pairing so that’s what you’re gonna get

Bellamy doesn’t really do parties. It’s not because he doesn’t have a lot of friends (okay, so he has like, three) but he tells himself it’s because he hates the crowds, the noise and the sweat from a mob of unruly drunken bodies. Also, he never gets invited to them. So it’s pretty normal that he’s sitting in his apartment on a Friday night, alone and tuning out the noise from upstairs. The room glows softly, all three sets of his fairy lights and his desk lamp on to keep the night at bay. Sitting on his messily made bed with its ancient, pilling dark green comforter, he holds his guitar on his lap, making a smudged mess of a piece of notebook paper as he strums a chord progression and tries to put his raspy voice over it.

His phone starts to buzz relentlessly just as he’s figuring out the chorus, and he curses as he digs through his nest of pillows and blankets he’s created. When he finds it – directly under his left knee – the name on the screen drops a stone down his throat. It’s Clarke. In a panic, he jumps off his bed and stands in the middle of the room. After pacing a few times, he picks up.

Also on ao3

“Hey,” he breathes, and even though she’s not in the room, every sense is trained on what he can read of her reaction through the phone. His vision blurs, his hearing dulling until it’s just her voice, her breathing on the other end. They haven’t spoken in over six months, since their relationship ended, bloody and loud, at the beginning of the previous semester. She’d come back from the summer different, stony and just as impenetrable as she had been when they first met as bullheaded, impetuous underclassmen. They fought, but it was beyond the usual teasing and bickering. She never told him what happened. She shoved him away so violently, slammed all her walls down so fast he never really understood what he’d done wrong.

“Bellamy?” her voice cracks on his name, and he hears the tears, thick in her throat. “I didn’t mean – Oh God, I’m sorry, I –” her breath gasps and quakes in her chest. “I was just –”

“Clarke, breathe,” he says, fighting to keep his voice even, to not let his own growing panic show through. “Take a breath, princess, you can do it.” The nickname slips out softly, a habit he never got past, and she squeaks on a sharp inhale. “Breathe with me, sweetheart, come on.” He squeezes his eyes shut, so tightly the world turns to stars, and leans his forehead against his door, one fist opening and closing, the other hand white-knuckled around his phone. His own breaths are shaky still, but hers finally slow to match. Flexing his hand against the door, he listens to Clarke’s shuddering breaths, and all he wants to do is find her, hold her, get so close he can’t tell his limbs from hers, let her fall asleep, safe in his arms.

But he’s not allowed that, anymore. She left, and for all he wishes, he doesn’t think she’s coming back to him. ���Can you come over?” she sniffles. It’s a weak and searching question, and she seems reluctant to even ask it.

He pauses, remembering the last time they were in the same room, the hurled insults and the crackling tension. “Do you… think that’s a good idea?” he asks, and he’s hopeful, too, but cautious. Scared, like she is.

“I –” she coughs and sniffles again, “I don’t care,” she huffs out on a sob. “I need you, Bellamy,” She cries for a moment more and he’s caught, frozen, logic and desire at war in his chest. Then, she says the word that breaks him, the word that always will. “Please.”  

It works. It always does. “I’m on my way,” he says, and it’s an exhale, a relief. It’s been half a year, but he still feels her absence as if it was fresh, like her voice on the other end of the line has ripped off the bandage over a festering wound. He tries not to think as he walks the few blocks downtown to her apartment. She lives in the complex in the center of downtown in their small college city, with the pool on the rooftop and the huge LED screens that plays the football games on Saturdays. It was a source of tension when they first met, what with Bellamy’s particular relationship to wealth. But then he got to know her, how sarcastic and hardworking and hilarious she was. How fiercely loyal and confident and determined.

He fell in love with her. It was inevitable; they were two cosmic bodies orbiting each other, pulling one another in, a collision course destined to end in fire and destruction. But it was a gorgeous supernova while it lasted, red and golden and orange flashing in the darkness, light and fire, passion and flame. And then, like everything, it died. And he never knew why. He’s not sure how this is going to go, as he walks. He’s hopeful, as he always is. A life like his has taught him that as long as there’s still breath in his lungs, there’s hope. But he thought he knew Clarke, knew how her brain worked, how she thought and what she wanted. He understands humans, for the most part. Clarke used to tell him he was “good at people,” sometimes as a compliment, sometimes because she was being belligerent.  

But he lost her. She pushed him away, far enough that he couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t reach out and hold her when she needed him, couldn’t feel her warmth in the cold. Stepping up to the buzzer, Bellamy reaches out his hand, and falters. Every piece of advice Octavia’s ever given to him echoes through his mind, her unyielding criticism of everything Clarke had done, everything Octavia had blamed her for. But then he remembers his sister’s eyes, green and sharp as winter, desperate to prove herself, and push through anyone who gets in her way. Bellamy, with Clarke’s help, had begun to discover the ways his sister used him, how he had settled back into a secondary character in his own life. Octavia hated Clarke for that, and Bellamy hated himself for ever listening to her. He rings the buzzer.

Clarke responds immediately, the door to the lobby clicking open. Hood up, hands planted firmly in his pockets, he’s not eager to meet the eyes of Sterling, the kid at the desk, or anyone he might know hanging out in the ground floor lounge. He recognizes the voices of Harper and Monroe over by the pool table; praying they don’t recognize him, he scratches the back of his head through his hoodie, using his arm to block his face. It doesn’t work, and Monroe calls his name, he turns, and their face lights up at the sight of him. “Bellamy!” they call, “hey!”

He turns, slowly, his mind filtering through a thousand different responses and finding none. “Hey… dude,” he responds, and then physically flinches. Knowing he looks wrecked, his eyes stay on his shoes.

Monroe’s cheerful expression slides off their face, replaced by a fleeting look of concern, immediately followed by understanding. Harper opens her mouth, but they nudge her in the ribs without looking. “Tell Clarke I hope she’s okay,” is all they say, before tugging on Harper’s elbow and directing her attention forcibly back to the game. Bellamy has some idea that they know something about the reason Clarke was crying on the phone, and that nags at him.

He hates not being the first to know everything, anymore. Telling secrets was something Clarke was never good at; she struggled with every aspect of sharing her feelings, and Bellamy was the same. They were a grumpy, sometimes malaligned pair, but they fit, somehow. They were each other’s confidants, steady points, rocks in a frothing river. She has someone else for that now – maybe more than one person. That hurts most of all, that he’s become insignificant. But, she did call. So maybe he still is her secret keeper. Monroe keys him into the elevator vestibule, so Clarke doesn’t have to come down and let him in.

However, since he already rang the buzzer, she’s in the hall when the elevator opens, her keys in her hand. “How did you –” she starts, just as he says “I ran into –” She laughs, a half-made, awkward thing, and it hangs. Stepping out of the elevator, Bellamy notices the tear tracks on her face, the salt collecting in her eyelashes, her cheeks, bloated and red. It’s only second nature to step forward and cradle her face, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. She starts, when he touches her, and he freezes, but it’s only for a moment before she leans into his hand. “Clarke…” he says, and it’s a whisper, a breath, the fall of a crumbling wall, the dissolution of a half-made barrier.

Rushing forward, she stumbles and crashes into his chest, tripping over her own feet. Her keys jangle behind his back, her face buried in his shoulder. His arms pause, hanging in the air for a moment before they clasp around her, his palms flat against her back. He can feel the warmth of her skin through her thin t-shirt, and her lips find their familiar place on his shoulder. It feels right, to have her back in his arms, to feel her breath and her pulse matching up to his.

“Real smooth,” he grumbles to diffuse the emotional weight of the moment before it overflows, “Tripping over air.” He attempts nonchalance, but his heart thunders in his chest and his stomach is somewhere at the base of his throat.

She chuckles, watery and soft against his skin. “Shut up.” Finally pulling away, Clarke swipes under her eyes with the cuffs of her white sweatshirt. Bellamy realizes with a jolt that it’s his, from his high school lacrosse team. She already looks different, even after only a few months. Her hair is shorter, cropped short around her chin, and there’s a shock of hot pink in the bottom three inches on one side, like she’d dyed it a long time ago and already and started growing it out. The sight chips a little deeper in the widening cavern in his chest.

Turning and obviously expecting him to follow, Clarke heads towards her apartment. Once she’s around the first corner, Bellamy releases the breath he was holding, heavy and loud in the concrete hallway. It echoes louder than he anticipated; it feels like all the anxiety it contained settles in his hair and on his shoulders, and he resists the urge to shake it off. He settles for pulling his fingers through his hair before setting off after her. Clarke gives him a small smile when he catches up, and his stupid heart drops to his feet. Even with the tear tracks and the blotchy red face, she’s gorgeous. She’s ruined him – he won’t find anyone more beautiful than her.

Unlocking the door, Clarke sniffs before saying “Excuse the mess. It’s been a rough – while.” Her space was usually fairly messy anyway, since she was both incredibly busy and wildly forgetful. But the scene they walk into looks like a bomb has gone off. Jackets and sweatshirts are on every surface of the living area, a stack of half-finished canvases sat next to the TV, and the dropcloth and easel look like they’ve been in the middle of the floor for over a month. Dust is thick on her bookshelf, and there’s a stack of dishes in the sink.

Bellamy feels a little sick and frustrated with himself. Because she lives without a roommate, there is no one around to monitor her, to pick her up and drag her out of the house when she is isolating herself and hibernating like a bear. When they were together, he usually took over that role; reminding her to eat, to switch the laundry, to not live like a hermit raised in a barn. Six months was too long to go without checking in. Part of him feels responsible for the place she’s in.

Ignoring all of it, Clarke beelines for her bedroom. The bed, for some odd reason, is made, even though the floor is a thick carpet of t-shirts and tops. She clambers up on it and pulls a large stuffed deer into her lap, wrapping her arms around it and clinging to it for dear life. Her watery blue eyes watch him as he stood in the doorway, taking in the scene, his heart breaking even farther with each second. He didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. He should have been around to make sure it didn’t.

She watches his face, and she still knows every line, every twitch and glimmer that gives away Bellamy’s every emotion. He’s shattering in slow motion, hairline crack by hairline crack, and it’s her that’s doing it to him – seeing her in this state. And she’s watching him blame himself; it’s in the pucker of his eyebrows and the shift of his cheeks. The lump rises in her throat again, and she chokes back tears with an apology. “I’m sorry, Bellamy,” she sobs, and then drops her forehead against the stuffed animal. “I’m so sorry.”

Bellamy steps on a pile of t-shirts and sinks down on the bed next to her, already hushing and comforting in his soft, deep voice. “It’s alright, it’s alright” he repeats, pushing the head of the deer aside so that she looks up at him. He’d gotten for her for their first – and only – valentine’s day together, because he’s a stereotypical cheesy romantic and for some reason, deer are Clarke’s favorite animal. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she says, shaking her head, looking at him. The sudden closeness almost hurts. After six months – half an entire year – of barely hearing from her, seeing her only at parties and events, and now they’re alone in her bedroom, sitting on her bed, and she’s filling up the space with her eyes and her voice and her smell, and it’s almost too much. Clarke takes a deep, shaky breath, and moves the deer from her lap, turning to face him. Sitting criss-cross so they’re knee-to-knee, she takes his hands, and focuses on them as she speaks. “It’s not, because –” and her voice breaks, and he’s so glad she’s touching him, finally, so he can hold her hands tighter, give her some solid ground to stand on. “Because I hurt you, and I never told you why.”

“Clarke,” he breathes, “We don’t have to do this now.” He smooths the hair off her forehead and he wants so badly to pull her into his chest and let her cry. He wants to let his touch shut out everything, make it just the two of them again, together against the world.

But she doesn’t fall into him, just sniffles and wipes at her eyes again. Taking another deep breath, she seems to be preparing herself for something. “No,” she says, “We do, because –” another shuddering sigh. “Because I lied to you.”

This one hits him in the chest, scooping away at the hollow already there. Bellamy and Clarke didn’t start their relationship well; there was a lot of screaming, and then light hearted banter, and even when they were together they fought and teased and bickered – but there was never any lies. “About –” he stammers, “about what?”

She drops her eyes, and he watches her struggle with what she’s about to say, watches her start to raise her walls again, and then pause, remembering who she’s with. Fidgeting, she adjusts her grip on his hands a few times before she begins. “When we –” She catches herself. “After I –” she tries once more before finally settling “at the end of that summer, I – I left. And I told you it was because I thought we – that we’d run our course and that I –” she chokes on her next words, “that I didn’t love you anymore.” her eyes start to fill. “And that was a lie. God, it was a lie.”

Confused doesn’t even begin to cover where Bellamy’s at right now. Part of him is elated, that she hadn’t randomly fallen out of love with him, but he’s terrified of the possibilities of her lie. Maybe it really was something heinous, something he would never be able to forgive her for… although, he’s not entirely sure that’s possible. “What was it?” he asks. “What did – what did you lie about?”

Clarke pauses and sighs once more. “Do you remember my cousin Madi?” Bellamy nods slowly, not entirely sure where this is going. He’d met Madi at a few of Clarke’s family events. Thanksgiving, Christmas, things like that. Since his mother was dead and he’d stopped answering his sister’s calls, Clarke’s family had become his. Madi was a cute kid, fourteen and full of energy, ready to grow up, but not quite there yet. She hero-worshipped the both of them, but they didn’t mind. She was fun to hang out with, and pretty funny, and loved all the same old-school nickelodeon cartoons they’d grown up with. Bellamy’s stomach drops at the foreboding tone in Clarke’s voice. “She was diagnosed with some kind of rare blood disease at the end of last summer.” She says, all in a rush, like it’s a relief to get it off her chest.

“She got hurt, and her blood was almost black, and I was babysitting her and I had to take her to the hospital and she got put on permanent oxygen and then things just –” Clarke chokes on the words, her eyes filling with tears. “They only got worse from there, and now –” her tears are flowing now, collecting and dripping off her chin, but she just keeps talking, like she’s been holding on to it for too long and it all just needs to come out. “Her mom just called like half an hour ago and she’s in this experimental surgery and they don’t know if she’ll pull through and she’s halfway across the country in Polis and I’m stuck here, and I can’t – I don’t know what to do and I just —” she dissolves into too-quick breaths and sobs, and finally, Bellamy pulls her into his chest. Her face falling against his shoulder, she curls up into his lap, crying, ugly and loud against his neck. It hurts him, to feel her shaking in his arms, to know there’s nothing he can do but hold her, keep his arms as a boundary around the pain, so it can’t get any worse, so it can’t grow beyond something she can control.

When she tires herself out, her breath evening as the tears subside, she laces her fingers around his shoulder and pulls herself closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again. She’s torn down and flagging, just so tired. She wants to lay down, to have Bellamy hold her so close she can’t tell where she ends and he begins. She wants to close her eyes and stop existing, just for a while. She wants to forget.

Bellamy lifts her chin off his shoulder and pulls away slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. “If it’s forgiveness you need,” he says, brushing a piece of hair away from her eyes with his thumb. “You’re forgiven, okay?” His heart hammers in his throat, but he means it, every word. There are a thousand other emotions storming around in his chest; grief, for Madi, sadness and empathy for Clarke, and yes, a little bit of anger, too – at the unfairness of Madi’s condition, even at Clarke, for not letting him help – but she’s here, and she needs him, and he’ll do anything, to protect her.

She bites her bottom lip, unable to pull her eyes from Bellamy’s, deep and brown, looking warm and genuine, feeling like home. “But I lied,” she whispers. She knows how much Bellamy values honesty, how he grew up surrounded by lies and treachery and sneaking around, and how he needs people to be upfront with him. She knows how hard this cut, her deceiving him. And as much as it makes sense, as much as she’s justified it these past six months, she hates herself for it, too.

“Clarke,” he says, in a whisper, his voice cracking on the single syllable of her name. And that’s how she knows he’s sincere. It’s the same way he says her name at the end of every fight, the same way he says it when he gives in to every emotion, when he buckles under every burden he makes himself carry. His eyes start to well with tears, and he shakes his head, just the slightest, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s him saying don’t be naive, don’t think I would ever hold this against you. So much in this small gesture. “People lie all the time.”

There isn’t anything left to say. She rests her hands on either side of his face, brushing her thumbs against his cheekbones, and rests her forehead against his – a question. Breathing ragged, hands trembling, Bellamy pulls her lips to his. A kiss, so simple – but an answer, a promise, a second chance, all the same. A whimper of relief creeps up the back of Clarke’s throat and – like so many times before – they fall into each other. It’s not perfect; they’re both a little teary and a little desperate, but they find their home in each other, and it feels like the first time all over again. It’s slow and sweet; she falls, and he catches her, again and again.

When she finally pulls away, lips tingling, skin aflame, he nudges her nose with his. She almost laughs. That’s Bellamy’s move, something small that he doesn’t even realize he does. Something comforting; a reminder that he’s still here, present in the moment, all the way with her. “Will you stay?” she asks, smaller than a whisper.

“Of course,” is all he says. It’s late already, and they’re both exhausted, so – after a few minutes more of Bellamy holding her – they separate. Clarke is already in her pajamas. Bellamy pulls off his shirt, and she tosses him a pair of his sweatpants without looking at him, her face red. He chuckles. “I’ve been looking for these.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, hiding under the covers.

He turns off the light and climbs up behind her, his arm sliding around her waist, solid and strong. She closes her eyes and turns over, nuzzling into his chest. They lay in the dark for a while, Bellamy dozing, dragging his fingertips up and down her spine, Clarke trying to sleep, but with a white-knuckle grip on her phone, willing it to ring. The night wears on; eventually, Bellamy drops off, but Clarke stays awake, breathing him in, trying to find comfort in the circle of his arms, pacing her breaths to his even ones, lightly tracing her fingers over his face in the moonlight that filters through the curtains. She whispers apologies to him, over and over again – not just for lying, but for leaving, for not explaining, for cutting and running right when she needed him most. She knows he can’t hear her, that he wouldn’t want to, wouldn’t let her blame herself, but it makes her feel better.

At five, just as the sky is beginning to lighten, her phone rings. It had slipped between the two of them in the middle of the night, and the vibrating wakes Bellamy as well. Clarke rockets upright and answers it, her other hand clutched in her short blonde hair. Sitting up, Bellamy rubs a hand up and down her spine, attempting to hide the anxiety clawing at his chest. He has to be strong, for her. Her half of the conversation is just “yeah”s and “okay”s and finally, a “thank you. I love you, keep me posted.” She hangs up, and then turns and throws her arms around his neck. “She’s stable. She’s gonna be okay.”

Bellamy holds on tight, feeling her press her smile against his shoulder, where her lips always find their way, where they belong. He lets out his own sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he sighs. Madi had started to take the place of Octavia in his heart, in terms of brotherly affection, and he had his own worry for her. “Oh thank fucking christ.” And then suddenly, they’re both laughing.

She pulls away, puts her hands on his face like she had the night before. “She’s gonna be okay,”

She laughs, and her smile is almost blinding. Clarke is his sunlight, his hope in the dark, and every time she smiles, he’s reminded of it. Her laugh is disbelieving, but bubbling and radiant. She stands up on her knees, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist. “Oh my god!” she says, like it’s finally sinking in, “She’s really gonna be okay!” She tries to jump up and down on her knees, but only succeeds in destabilizing herself and falling onto Bellamy, pushing him backwards onto the bed.

He lets out a yell of fake indignation and rolls over, running his fingers up and down her sides with ruthless tickles. She squirms and shouts, still laughing, and as the sun creeps up over the buildings, they forget the past six months. In this moment, they never broke. They never spent too much time alone, thinking of the other. Clarke never pushed him away. Bellamy never let her. In this moment, there is only the early morning sun, and their impossible laughter, and the small victory of temporary relief.

Finally, when Clarke is breathless and tears are starting to leak from her eyes, Bellamy stops the torture and leans in to kiss her, long and deep. She tangles her fingers in his hair and can’t stop smiling against his lips, as these last hours have brought her more happiness than she could have ever imagined. She wraps her legs around his waist and tries to pull him closer, but he pulls away. “Wait –” he says. With his hair impossibly messy like that, his lips shining and his cheeks flush, it’s the last thing she wants to do, but she stops. His eyes are wild, and she can tell he wants this as much as she does, but something is (barely) holding him back. “Why did you call me?” They both knew there were several other people she could have called, people that definitely would not have brought even more emotional baggage to the table.

Her heart jumps to the base of her throat, a blush rising in her cheeks. It’s stupid, and embarrassing, and she hides her nervous chuckle in his shoulder. “It’s stupid,” she says. He rolls off her (unfortunately), and settles next to her on his side.

“Tell me,” he urges, holding her hand when she places it over his heart.

She focuses on her palm against his bare chest, the heat of him, the contrast of their skin. “Remember when we met at that like – peer mentor thing, and you had to give us all your phone number?” Bellamy nods, remembering the day they met. Clarke was a new freshman, Bellamy a sophomore who had somehow landed a position as a peer mentor for Arcadia University’s honors program ‘freshman experience.’ His contempt for the position had been obvious, and none of his students had liked him, and vice versa. The ‘mentor feedback’ forms from that year ensured it was a one-time gig for him. It wasn’t until he and Clarke met at a party several months later that they discovered they actually liked each other. “Well, I uh…” a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, and she taps her fingertips against his chest. “I put you in my phone as ‘raging asshole.’”

He barks out a laugh, and she hurries to correct the situation, her hands fluttering as he curls forward with the force of his surprise. “I changed it when we started dating!” she insists. He shakes his head, waving her off, gesturing for her to continue her story. “Well, after we, uh –” she doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to hear her say it. “Well, after, I changed it back. And then, last night, I was trying to call Raven, and I hit your number instead.”

“So… it was an accident?” he asks, wondering why he feels disappointed.

“I guess,” she says. But then; “But you picked up the phone, and I realized – it was you, I wanted here. It was you I needed.” He surges forward to kiss her again, and when she pulls him closer, he doesn’t stop.

After, when they’re laying skin-to-skin and the morning has taken over the room, Clarke looks up at Bellamy from where she’s laying on his chest. Soft golden light filters through the curtains and falls across his relaxed, pensive face, setting his bronze skin aglow, turning his deep brown eyes into liquid amber. His fingers are drawing absent patterns across her skin, and she’s sated and safe and happy. “Bellamy?” she asks, easy, but still worried at the answer.

“Yeah?” he responds, adjusting his position so he can look her in the eyes.

It almost stops her heart, that this beautiful man can be so good, and come back to her again. “Do you –” she pauses to heave a deep breath. “Do you think you could love me again?”

His face softens, and he brings a hand up to pull her chin up, giving her a sweet, slow kiss. “Don’t you know?” he says, “I never stopped.”

[silyabeeodess]

FusionFall Retro 2019 Holiday Event Fic: Icy Imagery, pt. 1

A long, tired sigh escaped the woman’s lips as she collapsed onto her assigned cot.  It was a nightmare: Fuse’s army had pushed deep within the Ice Kingdom, chasing away many of its denizens—with one of which, the Ice King himself, making a new home in the south side of Pokey Oaks until Finn, Jake, and the Fusion Fighters sent with them could regain his territory.   Now, not only had he erected a giant spire of ice in place of his castle right in the middle of the neighborhood, but a swarm of penguin-like fusion monsters and ice titans had followed him there.  The mounting problems required a full evacuation.

On top of everything, it was little wonder to some why so many fusion monsters tracked the Ice King down. Normally, when Fuse conquered an area, that was that: He was too confident in his own power to worry about whether or not regular civilians escaped, too self-assured that all of Earth would inevitably fall under his domain.  If Fuse was after the Ice King, it was because he considered him a genuine threat.  

There was some debate over how much Imaginary Energy the wizard could wield, and rumors that he used to be some kind of genius.  Silya didn’t know about all of that, but he certainly wasn’t… normal.  Perfectly mad, a trait she could actually admire—so long as he didn’t hurt anyone.  Really though, he was also kind of a nuisance.  As many Fusion Fighters had come to his aid, fortifying the spire and working together to protect him until he could go back to the Ice Kingdom, he was treating all of them like hired help.  Even two fusions had shown up—one of himself and one version of a penguin he called ‘Gunter’—and he wasn’t taking that seriously!  Without a doubt, this mission went high on the long list of aggravating jobs she’d taken since joining the war.

“Wenk!”

Oh yeah, and apparently, I’m a penguin mom now…  Silya wiped at her face before glancing toward the wide, dark eyes that meet her own peridot ones.  The tiny bird flopped on its side by her on the cot, blinking with myopic innocence. He was her “reward” from the Ice King: One of many passed out to the soldiers for guarding his penguins.  Honestly though, she practically already had thirty-six kids the way her nanos behaved.  She didn’t need one more.

“Wenk!” the penguin curled up closer to her side.  Had it imprinted on her?  A part of her hoped not.  Although, a part of her hated herself more for already growing attached to the small fry.

Her wristcom buzzed to life. Pulling back her sleeve, she only barely recognized the number and answered it all too late by the time she realized who the call was from.  Before she could cut it off, the Ice King’s face appeared as a small hologram.  “Hey, there!  Finally, somebody picks up! Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve made today just trying to get anyone?  A lot, that’s how many.”

Silya hid back her frayed nerves with a small, awkward grin, but her voice still came out somewhat bitter, “What do you need, Ice King?”

If he noticed, he didn’t show it.  Really, he just seemed glad that she didn’t immediately hang up—no doubt like many others had first. “So yeah!  A few guys told me about this ‘Imaginary Energy’ stuff and how you use it to beat those goop monsters—like, it comes from you, but you still need weapons?  They tried explaining, but it just sounds like none of you actually know what you’re doing to me. If it’s anything like magic though, I figured—I don’t know—maybe I could give some pointers tomorrow.  I’ve been calling to see who’s interested and your boss mentioned you and some other people. Anyway, you in?”

It took her a moment to make sense of his mess of words.  The second after though, she was shaking her head and cursing the operation’s commander. “What? No—! No thank you, Ice King,” she grunted, sitting up.  Her penguin flopped into her lap immediately after.  Was this really happening?  What was happening right now?  “I don’t think you know how complicated Imaginary Energy is.  It’s not as simple as magic: There’s a science to it.  We use our tech as a means of drawing it out and manipulating it around us in a stable form, as a protective measure and to enhance our weapons.”

Was she really having to explain this?  To him, of all people?  There were scientists that could go into more detail than Silya could with more patience than she had to spare.  Sure, he had ice powers, but that was only thanks to his crown.  What made him think that he knew anything about Imaginary Energy—which, apparently, he’d only just heard about in the first place?

“Look, I can pass you over to someone at Dexlabs or Mandark Industries.  They can explain it better,” she offered.  She didn’t want to just brush him off, but this was one headache she wanted to avoid.  “Besides, you shouldn’t be wandering around. Fusion You is still—”

Ice King cut her off before she could say anything else, his hands on his hips, “I don’t need to listen to a bunch of nerds!  And who ever said magic was simple?  I’ll have you know I worked hard to master a lot of my moves.”

“They’re just not the same, alright?”

“Alright then, smarty-pants, well, if you know so much, then I guess you can tell me what an imagination zone is, right?  Huh?  Huh?”  His eyebrows seem to rise with every emphasized word and he pressed his face closer to the screen, the hologram distorting in reaction.

She stared at him, bewildered.  She didn’t answer him: No, that was news to her. There were people that could create miniature worlds thanks to Imaginary Energy: It was a rare phenomenon though, caused by people with insanely high amounts of IE who inevitably never could describe just how they did it.  The way the wizard talked about it, however, it almost sounded common.  Maybe it was an Ooo thing.  

Her silence only encouraged him and the smile returned to his face, “See?  I know my stuff!  You could learn something!  I’m not promising anything, but it could be fun.  We’ll be like the guys that hang out in those kung-fu movies.  I’ll bring snacks!” Her eyes widened as he leaned back to look at a long list that came into the transmitter’s view.  How many people was he calling over this?!  “I’ll go ahead and put you down as a ‘yes.’  We’re meeting a little ways up the spire around noon, and don’t be late, ok?  Bye!”

Silya couldn’t get another word in before he hung up on her. As the hologram evaporated, she stared at the screen a second longer and then held her head in her hands in exasperation.  The penguin rolled off her lap and sat up next to her, watching and then mimicking her.  

Technically, she didn’t have to go.  Her next shift to guard the Ice King wasn’t for a few more days and she was just one face in a crowd of thousands: He’d forget her in a heartbeat and pester somebody else.  He could act like such a doofus that she wasn’t even afraid of what he was capable of if she upset him.  Still, she didn’t not like him and, if she was honest, he actually made a few good points.  She worked for Dexter and the boy genius was absolutely against the magical arts, meaning that she was rarely exposed to more than Imaginary Energy’s scientific elements.  Little was known about IE as it was.  And she wanted to understand it more than anything…  If the Ice King knew something—by some insane piece of luck—then maybe she should give him a chance.

“Wenk…” The woman glanced down as her penguin wrapped one of its wings over her arm and cuddled up against her.  It seemed sleepy, but content to be by her side.  She patted it lightly on the head with her free hand, still deep within her own thoughts.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to hear him out, she mused, It’s just for one afternoon.  Any bit of new information she could learn would be worth dealing with his madness for that long.    

Part 2: https://silyabeeodess.tumblr.com/post/189934873389/fusionfall-retro-2019-holiday-event-fic-icy

((This fic’s kind of an after-thought, since I wasn’t sure where I’d go with it or even write one for this event at first, but I feel like there’s a lot of unexplored territory here.  It’s gonna be a multi-part one, but likely a lot shorter than the one I did for one of October’s prompts.  Please enjoy!))

[detroitbecomeyandere]

Yandere!Hank x surgeon!reader

Wordcount: 1193

A/N: Okay, it is Don't breathe!Hank kidnapping surgeon!reader that was too high on the Red Ice to operate. Took longer than I expected, turned out shorter that I planned.

Warnings: this piece contains depressive thoughts, self-guilt, mentions of child's death and drug use, kidnapping and violence. Read it at your own risk.

A tired sigh escaped your lips, as you started to take off medical gloves, now almost completely covered in blood: emergency calls would it be about accidental trauma or deliberate violence always left you exhausted both mentally and physically. During the operations, all of your attention would always focus on your patient and surgical instruments in your steady hands, all moves precise and perfect, almost robotic and machine-like. In those moments, there were only you and your mission – saving lives, entire world fading away somewhere in background not leaving even a trace behind. Despite being in chaotic situation your mind was at calm when you did it – you knew what to do and you did it – nothing simpler than that. Nevertheless, unlike the cold and calculated state of mind in complete unison with body during operating time, stress and anxiety would took over you after surgery had been done – as if all worries and doubts that were completely ignored during the medical procedure, tried to drown you in themselves.

You noticed slight tremble in your hands only when you started to wash them, exhaustion pouring into your entire body through veins.

“Everything will be alright” – you said to yourself, futilely trying to calm your mind down: surgery was successful and post-operative period usually is one of the calmest ones, despite existence of several risk factors, which could result in recovery complications, there was nothing to fear about now. Injured man was in bad state of health, yes, but it was as stable as it could be – you always did your best, fearing to fail yet another patient.

It was a six-year-old boy.Guilt washes all over you, burning sensation spreading throughout you whole body. He needed an emergency surgery he needed you.Your fists are tightly clenched as well as your eyes are shut. Why do you always remember? You failed him. You failed him because you did not had even a tiny bit of will to say “no” to your so-called friends.You wish you could reset yourself, like those androids can, be free of the memory burden. You exchanged six-year-old’s child life for a handful of Red Ice.

Drowning in your guilt, you do not notice when pouring water became so painfully hot right away, as it starts to burn your palms.

You want nothing but rest.

__________

A loud cracking sound releases you from your slumber. Half-awake and disoriented you try to know what time it is, all your thoughts sloppy and messy, from the recent sleep, as you try to process what happened.

 “Someone tries to break in” – this thought makes you finally get out of bed and try to do anything, as spikes of fear starts to bloom in your chest. You live in a relatively quiet neighborhood, any crimes here – a rare, but possible occurrence, so your neighbors will call the police if they will hear something suspicious.

Yes, but only if they hear.You do your best to ignore the same tiny voice in your head, which tormented you for the kid’s death all these years, meanwhile trying to dress up and find the gun, hidden under the folds of clothes in your drawer, all with no lights on. Maybe it’s better. Your fingers feel a cold metal of a gun, but it is still unloaded, useless.

It will not help the dead child, but it will punish you.“Breathe. Concentrate” - the last thing you need now is to guilt-trip yourself to death, it will be thousand times better if you manage to remember where the bullets are. You need those, it is a matter of life and –

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear footsteps. Loud and heavy, they pulsate in your head as you try to come up with a plan. “Someone is in the house, and that someone is not afraid of being heard” – it makes you dizzy, as you come to realization - “They are armed too”. Typical burglars wouldn’t let themselves to roam the house so carefree and boldly, especially in that district.

A bathroom locker! You remember how you put bullets in the bathroom locker, underneath the mirror. Why you even decided to keep gun and bullets separately, especially now, when you needed them the most? Is it worth it? Risking your life to run to the bathroom, or you just need to hide and wait until they decide leave?

Torn between two choices you hear, as the steps come near you door. “Oh, fuck” – you don’t have any time for this now, as you try to make the action of shoving yourself underneath the bed, as silent as it can be possible.

You need to be quiet.

“Don’t breathe”.

__________

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It can be an hour or just five minutes; you lost the sense of time, as all your efforts went into being invisible and inaudible, an empty space. His – that is a man, judging by his shadow’s silhouette- footsteps are as loud as ever, you feel it in your head and heart, your whole body pulsates to their rhythm.

He comes closer to the bed. You can’t see what he is doing, but you can hear. He touches the sheets and pillow you had been sleeping on. “It’s still warm. Your bed is warm” – your heart skips a beat, you can’t believe your ears, silent hysteria arises from your depths. “No, no, no, please, don’t look after me, just take all my money and leave, you don’t need me”. – unspoken plea takes all your mind, as you feel how fear paralyzes you whole body.

“It means only one thing” – his voice sounds distantly familiar and it terrifies you even more – “You’re here”. A strong hand forcefully yanks you by the hair, dragging you out from your hideout. Pain awakes your body, casts off shackles of fear, as you try to wriggle out of his grip. It doesn’t help.

A strong hit to the temple strips you of your conscience.

__________

Your head hurts and as you return to the world and you can’t really think coherently.  

You are sitting in some sort of strange room, as it has no windows and all of the walls and floor are covered with soft pads. You try to stand up, but fail to do so and only then you realize that you’re in some sort of harness. It locks your hands behind your hand and ties your body with your legs, leaving you helpless. You wriggle and squirm as much as you can trying to loosen the harness.

“Don’t try it” – his voice sounds familiar, despite being colder and more lifeless now, but familiar. You make a quick guess. Hank Anderson, Cole’s father. Guilt washes all over you again at just looking at his father. You killed his child. You deserve this. You want to hide your face, completely crushed by this reminder. He notices that.

“I’ve been thinking about my son all these years, and how you killed him” – part of you became terrified at his words, but other part eagerly agreed with him.

“I think you should repay, for what you’ve taken away from me”

__________

P.S. I hope you had a good time reading it - 👽

Submission by Alien anon!

[acehotel]

In Conversation: Matt Starr and Simon Herzog

Matt Starr is an artist we first met through his collaborative work with Ellie Sachs, back when the duo presented The Museum of Banned Objects in The Gallery at Ace Hotel New York. Last fall, we asked Matt to find an interesting friend to chat with for our blog, and he returned with Simon Herzog — a world-traveling artist with an affinity for the procedural who’s just launched a new app, Peregrine Journey [Apple App Store], with collaborator Jeffrey Russo. 

Matt Starr: You've been traveling a lot recently. Where are you going and why are you traveling so much?

Simon Herzog: I figured out at some point that I could just turn my life into almost [any] direction I wanted to if I was creative about it. I figured out that I could actually travel all the time, so now I'm traveling literally all the time. I'm in Copenhagen now. Just came back from Munich. Before that, Krakow. Before that, Athens and then New York. That's in the last two weeks.

MS: That's crazy.

SH: It makes me a better traveler. I get a lot of practice.

MS: Did you grow up traveling?

SH: Yeah, absolutely. I was really lucky to have two parents who are amazing travelers, both of them, who know how to deal with any situation anywhere, who have different styles but are both just excellent at it, so growing up with them to learn from helped a lot.

MS: Let's talk about your upbringing and how it plays into the stuff you're making now. You got to spend a lot of time in jungles and deserts and on film sets. As a kid, it must've been pretty surreal.

SH: Yeah, but [everything] is normal when that's the way you grow up, right? I really can't say that any one upbringing is much more extraordinary than the other, but I just got really lucky to have grown up with parents who are doing interesting stuff all the time and I got to do that as well.

MS: Do you feel like that experience helped shape the app you're working on now?

SH: Completely, yeah. The app, called Peregrine Journey, lets you walk a journey of your choice, like any point A to point B in the world, with your actual steps that you're walking in real life wherever you happen to be. Everyday we show you a picture from the place you virtually reached, so eventually you see the landscape and the people changing over time. You never know what you're going to get. You actually get to walk those distances with your real footsteps even if you’re not physically there.

SH: My dad in particular is a big walker and he's done these huge walks, like most of the way around the German border, for example, or from Munich to Paris and in the Pyrenees and so on. That was inspiring because it's just a way to see the world that isn't really replicable or replaceable with any other means of transportation.

MS: Where do the photos come from?

SH: The photos are coming from Flickr. There's a huge database of images that are publicly available; we're just pulling a geotagged photo from a small radius of a couple kilometers of the point you've virtually reached and showing that to you and crediting the photographer. It's hugely diverse what you get.

MS: How did the idea originate?

SH: It started when I read a Wikipedia article years ago about a prisoner who was in jail for about 20 years and every day he'd get to be in the yard for only an hour, but during that hour, he'd just walk in a circle over and over and over again and he calculated the circumference of the circle and the distance he walked every day. And back in his cell, he'd plot that distance on a map of the world. Week by week, he was covering more of this journey in his mind, and then he'd go to the prison library and borrow books, travel books or cookbooks or whatever he could find from those places, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing, so I just wanted to have that for myself.

MS: That's incredible. It's like a poem. This app, more than most, feels really experiential.You get to see the world in a different way which can help reshape the way one interprets both space and distance.

SH: Yeah, and I'm hoping that it shows people that you can accomplish these things. You can walk these massive, unimaginable distances. For example, I've been walking for two months on this journey from Uzbekistan to Ukraine. I'm 212 kilometers into it, which is pretty far. I walk a fair amount in daily life, but that's like 7% of this journey. It's going to take me over a year probably. We'll see, but eventually I'll get there. Eventually I'll get to Kiev and have walked all the way across Uzbekistan and Ukraine and everything in between.

MS: You’ve described what you do as “procedural art.” Can you explain what that means?

SH: I don't know. I'm sure somebody's used it before, but I came up with it just as I started to describe the kind of work I was creating because all of it in a sense is like a byproduct of some kind of a process. Many times, it's not the end in itself to create this thing. There's an emergent property to a process and through that, something appears that takes on its own shape or is bigger than the sum of its parts.

MS: The second project I saw of yours was the huge journal piece — the journal  [To Do, 2013] for a thousand days — how did that begin?

SH: It wasn’t something I intended to be a piece of art or anything like that. I'm big into self-improvement and so I read that it's just generally a universally accepted good habit to keep a journal. It's good for self-reflection. It improves your memory and so on, so I just started. I figured it's easier to do it every day than to do it some days and it's easier to write everything down than to write some things down, and so I ended up writing about 500 words a day. That's a good page and a half. I did that for over 1,000 days — for 1,064 days actually. It ended up being almost half a million words, which is roughly eight average novels in length if you put them all back to back.

MS: On your most boring days, how are you writing a page and a half?

SH: First of all, I never really feel bored, so every day contains a lot of events and experiences and things I saw or heard or felt and there's just plenty to write every day. It was hard to write less. You know the saying about spending more time to make it shorter, right? I didn't have enough time to only write a paragraph a day, so I wrote 500 words, roughly.

SH: The first project I created with it was after I stopped, because after 1,000 days, it felt enough and I had accomplished what I set out to do, I put this all on a giant poster one by two meters and alphabetized the entire text, so now there's no more semantic meaning to it really, but it's kind of a rudimentary data visualization of all the words that I used. It's more about the language in a way. You see these huge chunks of just thousands and thousands of words repeating over and over again. You can see how much space they take up, how often I use them or how important that word is in my life over those almost three years.

MS: I'm seeing naked and narcissistic quite a lot right now.

SH: Well, in three years, you run into a lot of situations where somebody might be naked.

MS: And narcissistic.

SH: You never know.

MS: It's true. What about the solargraphy?

SH: That's another attempt to document.

MS: Were you attracted to [solargraphy] because of the process?

SH: Yeah, absolutely. That's a photography technique where you take a single continuous exposure on analog film of the sky and you capture the sun over the course of months. Normally on a camera, you'd have the shutter speed of like one-hundredth of a second or so, but here it's actually three to six months that you leave the shutter open. It's this tiny pinhole camera.

SH: Essentially what it does is it captures the light of the sun as it travels across the sky in a parabola, and so you see the path of the sun as these individual lines of light and you can even tell where it was cloudy maybe for a few hours or for the entire day, and all of this gets codified in a single frame. I did quite a few of these in different countries, mostly in Denmark and in Austria, but again, it's a way to document something that you just don't see otherwise unless you go and read every weather report for six months from solstice to solstice.

MS: What about your airplane safety cards  [Safety, 1997-Present] project? It's a lot of one thing again.

SH: There's this joy in finding patterns that I think every human has to some extent. That's part of the reason we're successful as a species, and in certain individuals it's particular pronounced. I really like patterns, both visually and in everything. I've been collecting airplane safety cards since I was seven — the cards in the seat pocket in front of me that you're not really supposed to take, but I considered it a victimless crime — hopefully everybody knows the procedures by now. I think they're really beautiful. I've always been really fascinated with civil aviation as a child, and I'm still really into it now. I listen to so many air traffic control recordings and since I was 7 I've taken the safety card from every plane I’ve been on. I'm at 496 safety cards. I fly a lot.

MS: So what are you working on now?

SH: A bunch of things. We've launched Peregrine Journey just this week. I'm working on making a tent from scratch right now; an ultra light tent out of this incredible fabric called Dyneema Composite Fabric — basically the lightest tent I can get my hands on with my own design.

MS: That’s amazing. You have such a diverse range of interests, I love it.

SH: Every few years or so, I reevaluate what I'm most interested in. This year is one of those years, and I realized how much I'm into Medieval travelers. These people were almost like astronauts; first to contact aliens. People like Ibn Fadlan who walked from Baghdad to north of Kiev. You kind of see a theme perhaps? All great walkers.

MS: What inspires you? It seems like it's almost an impulse for you to be able to just react to an interest of yours and turn it into a long-term project.

SH: It's probably about depth and passion. For example, when I meet somebody else and they're really interested in something, I will automatically want to know everything about it, even if they're really into something like nail art. I want to know everything you know! Please tell me all about nail art. I feel like every piece of knowledge I gain from somebody who's really interested in something is just so valuable. Not only does it help me connect with other people, it feels like adding a building block to myself and being a better person in some way through this knowledge I have, especially from conversations like that.

SH: I had this hour and a half long conversation about wood with a cabinet maker a little while back. I know a bit about wood — just an incredible material — but he's such an expert, and he showed me this Japanese wood carver; I showed him my favorite burl inlays and we had this super nerdy conversation that I learned so much from.

MS: I don’t know anyone else who can romantically talk about Medieval travelers and wood within 60 seconds of each other in a conversation.

SH: Every person has so much depth to them and for some, it's much more at the surface than others. I think with people like you, it's very much at the surface. It's easy to tell. I think I'm like this, as well, if I may say. I want to talk about the things that I'm really, really into and that I care about.

SH: Almost everybody has these things somewhere hidden that many people don't feel comfortable sharing. I always want to dig these things out and talk to people about what they really care about. Those are my favorite kind of talks I get to have.

[keywestlou]

TRUMP NOMINATED FOR NOBEL PEACE PRIZE SECOND YEAR IN A ROW

There is still a humor in things Donald Trump.

He has been nominated for the second consecutive year for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Wonder of wonders!

I am not concerned about his winning. It would be both a surprise and shock.

Son in law Jared Kushner was nominated last week for the Award also.

Neither will win.

The nomination is no big deal. Each year 300-400 persons are nominated. Only 1 or 2 will win. Anyone of stature may do the nominating. A college professor or officer, a political leader, are examples.

This year Trump was nominated by an Estonian member of the European Parliament Jaak Madison. His reasons for the nomination were two fold. First, Trump is the first American President in 30 years who did not start a war. Second, Trump signed several peace agreements in the Middle East which helped provide stability in the region and peace.

I am 85 years old. Still waiting for my coronavirus vaccine shot. Different County locales have been opened for the purpose of providing the shots. The problem is there has never been enough shots.

It has been announced the College of Florida Keys will be providing vaccine shots beginning sunday. The College is going to work off the Health Department’s application list in determining in what order the shots will be given.

Sunday’s shots will be provided those 65 and older. I should qualify. I qualified when the age was 75 and could not get it.

Four hundred vaccines are available for sunday. It is expected that by the weekend, 300 additional shots will be received.

Each a pittance. Better than none, however.

Let’s hope all goes as planed. Let’s hope that all such as myself 20 years over the minimal age limit finally get the shot.

The Democratic Party concerns me. They have for years. Especially since Obama took office.

Democrats are good guys. They do not know how to fight dirty.

Republicans fight dirty. Democrats not. They continue to be legislative gentlemen in the tradition of old.

No way to fight.

It is tit for tat and a bit more. The Democrats have to learn to be like Republicans when it comes to fighting dirty. The Republicans need to be taught a lesson. Hit them first. If not, hit them harder when they hit first.

Otherwise, nothing is ever going to get done.

Trump’s impeachment trial before the Senate begins tuesday. The Trump defense is two fold. One is he is no longer President and therefore cannot be tried for impeachment. The other, and a new one, is that Trump continues to believe he is still President and has done nothing wrong. Therefore, he cannot be impeached.

Two inconsistencies meeting. A Catch-22 situation. The trial will be an interesting one.

The CDC announced friday all persons using public transportation in the U.S. must wear masks. The masks must be 2 layers which I assume means 2 layers of material. Additionally, the masks must be secured to the head.

Violation will result in arrest.

Oregon is a first in the nation. Oregon has decriminalized all illegal drugs. Such includes cocaine, heroin,and meth. Persons caught using drugs can be apprehended. However they can opt for rehabilitation rather than jail.

Today Santorini! A marvel! One of the most beautiful places in the world, if not the most. Hope you enjoy.

Day 8…..Greece the First Time

Posted on June 4, 2012 by Key WestLou

When I saw Key West for the first time twenty five years ago, I knew almost immediately it was a place I wanted to be. So too with Santorini.

You just know.

My day yesterday started with an early morning flight from Athens to Santorini. Olympic Airlines. A one half hour flight. On a big jet. Packed.

The plane took off. The pilot said we are heading to an elevation of 17,000 feet. Once we reached that point, the plane started its descent. You got it! The plane ride was an ascent to 17,000 feet and then an immediate descent into the Santorini airport.

Again young stewardesses. That is the word. Stewardesses. Thin. No more than size 4s. Hair swept back and up. For the little hats they perched on their heads when we landed.

Nikos met me at the airport. I never had met nor known Nikos before. Nikos and his wife Maria own some cave houses which they rent out. I was booked into one of those cave houses.

Nikos about 5′ 6″. Thin. Muscle bound. I would estimate around 60. Skin tough and weather beaten by the sun.

He embraced me like a long lost friend. A mutual acquaintance had arranged for me to stay at Nikos’ place. Nikos pointed out on the drive to his caves that he never picks anyone up at the airport. He was only doing so because a mutual friend had told him to take good care of me. I was grateful

The formal name of the caves is Filotera Cave Houses. I do not know what filotera means. I googled it and could only come up with a list of motels, hotels and other cave accommodations on Santorini. Everything is filotera here.

The ride from the airport was an experience. Uncomfortable.

Nikos’ place was an hour drive from the airport. Straight up a hill. Mountain may be a better description. A very narrow two lane road with a drop off on the upward side thousands of feet into the sea. I was up up and away.

Drivers speed here. They come at each other at horrendous speeds. The road was very curvy. At every turn I saw an accident in the making. Especially when a bus came at us!

The views were spectacular. The heights dramatic. I have never been closer to God. In more ways than one.

Maria met us. Her appearance as her husband’s, except Maria was shorter and on the heavy side. It was hugs and kisses all around. I met the whole family. Daughter and grandchildren.

It was Maria’s birthday. She sent a piece of her birthday cake to my cave.

These caves are another world.

Santorini was once one large island. About 1,500 years before Christ (everything is before Christ in this part of the world), there was a huge volcanic explosion. Reportedly the largest ever known to man before and since. Broke Santorini into several islands. Santorini the largest.

The very first volcano was a long time back. Six hundred fifty thousand years. ago. The most recent in 1950.

Natural tragedy appears common to the area. There was a violent earthquake in 1956 which destroyed many old structures on the island. Earthquakes and I are becoming common place on this trip.

One side of Santorini ended up being a very high and steep cliff running from the heavens thousands of feet into the ocean. Caves developed. Home for me is one of those caves. Fear not, the accommodations are wonderful. Do not let the term caves scare you. All modern amenities. Only negative, no windows. Not for the claustrophobic. I have my own small white terrace hewed out of the cliff in front. A place where one can sit and contemplate his navel.

I can see the four islands made by the volcanic eruption. The eruption actually split a big island down the middle into two islands as well as several small ones. Smoke and sulfur can still be seen coming from the volcano itself.

Tradition has many tales. It is claimed that Santorini is the place where Moses and his people made their exodus from Egypt. The plagues which afflicted the Pharaoh and Egyptians are the same as were experienced on Santorini at the time of the volcanic eruption. Also, the breaking up of the island is said to reflect the parting of the waters by Moses. Another historical claim  is that the Atlantis of old was a part of Santorini and now lies somewhere below the sea in the area.

The waters are extremely deep around Santorini. Especially in the area of the volcano. So the tale may have some truth.

Sunset is big here. As in Key West. I rarely go to a sunset anymore in Key West. Seen one, seen them all. Too many people.

I went to the sunset last night. When in Rome, etc. Never again.

The sunset was around a corner of the island. I had about a one mile walk to it. Uphill all the way. Sometimes at a 45 degree angle. Steps everywhere. No consistency between the distance or height of each. The paved area marble. Slippery.

I was exhausted when I arrived at the anointed place. Pleased I had not fallen. Crushed into and with a mass of people just as in Mallory Square.

My sunset hours the rest of this trip will be spent on my little terrace with a drink in hand.

Many outdoor cafes along the top of the cliff. I stopped at one and enjoyed a delicious dish of moussaka. Prices dramatically cheap.

Then back to my cave and sleep. The weather cool. I slept like a baby all night. The first time I have done so this trip.

This morning there was a knock on the cave door. Yes, there are doors. It was a boy with coffee and bread. Nikos had sent them to me for breakfast. The bread was hot. Just out of the oven. I broke off a chunk and enjoyed.

More tomorrow. Do not miss any of it. This is one exciting place!

Enjoy your day!

TRUMP NOMINATED FOR NOBEL PEACE PRIZE SECOND YEAR IN A ROW was originally published on Key West Lou

[funkymbtifiction]

Hello, I always enjoy the work on this Tumblr. It's informative, interesting, and satisfying. Anyway, being an Ne dom like yourself, do you have any tips to not be overwhelmed by Ne a.k.a. How to Train Your Ne? I admit there are times when the ideas are buzzing and I yearn for stimulation then I become drained to the point of being physically tired.

Good timing, since I was just reading about Si-grips last night and realizing I basically live in one six months out of the year. :P

I’m not sure exactly what you mean, so I’ll cover all the bases I can think of.

There’s pretty much four stages in my life:

Ne-dom Extraordinaire: this is when you are the unbeatable monarch in your field, when you are on such a roll that not only do you finish your project ahead of the damn deadline, you went ahead and did sixteen other magnificent things that day too, just because your brain was on such a rush of SO MANY IDEAS. For example: you felt good about finishing your essay, so you wrote six movie reviews, four e-mails, 26 blog posts, and worked on your book to boot. And then you went to bed with a smile on your face because damn, I’m so fine.

Ne-dom Uninspired: this is when you feel “meh.” Not awesomesauce, not the lowest of the low, just plain MEH. Meh for a Ne-dom equals: semi-bored, semi-uninspired, semi-annoyed about it. Now, a sane person on this day goes and watches 24 episodes of ALIAS in a row to chill. Me, I FORCE myself to be ‘creative.’ And because I’m generally good at what I do, it comes out fine. Not knock your socks off stupendous, not awful, not even average, just fine. But it feels like dragging my brain through a cheese grater and I go to bed mad that my Ne-brain was lazy as hell today. Like, it’s supposed to be AMAZING all the time!!! What’s up with this?!

Ne-dom Bored-as-Hell: generally, this happens when your life is stagnant, or you are stuck on the same god-awful project for weeks, or your friends have not spoken to you in days, and you are so bored you can hardly stand it, but NOTHING appeals to you. You crave something, but don’t know what it is. You drag yourself through the work / school day like a fish on dry land, you scope the depths of depression, you maybe force yourself to do stuff, but it’s a clear indication that your Ne is STARVING TO DEATH. You must feed it. How? That’s up to you. Get in the car and drive. Go hang out with someone. Start learning something new. Read a book that you know you’ll hate, and blow your own mind by loving it. Try something totally, radically different.

Don’t be like me, and dye your hair purple and cut into a punk rock style. Although, God knows I looked adorable.

Ne-dom Work-a-Holic: also known as tunnel vision, also known as inferior Si grip, also known as the perfect way to make yourself exhausted at the end of the day. Picture a nice normal Ne being a freight train barreling through a tunnel at 976 miles per hour. Now picture a peasant maiden (or peasant lad, if that’s you’re thing) running out onto the tracks, and holding it in place for about 15 hours. It grinds to a halt, its wheels start to smoke, and the peasant maiden/lad is inching forward at, oh, about 6 miles per hour. Fast by her standards, slow by yours. Now imagine that’s what happens to your Ne, when you develop tunnel vision. All that power, going nowhere fast. Imagine the tremendous energy that just ground to a halt. The creeping subconscious despair of the engineer. You are both the peasant maiden/lad and the freight train. See the problem? You are ripping yourself apart. How’s that peasant maiden/lad going to feel at the end of the day?

Yup. Exhausted.

Now, what if that peasant maiden does this day after day for about a week?

Exhausted. Mental exhaustion, from holding back the train, forcing Ne to stay on one topic, or focus on “boring” things for days on end. Where’s the fun? Where’s the zany? Where’s the sarcasm and jokes and random connections? Hello, inferior Si. Obsessive compulsive, aren’t you? Fixated. BAD.

How to Train Your Ne:

1) Give yourself permission to stick to one idea for awhile.

I get it. You will have thousands of great ideas in a single lifetime, or maybe even a week. If you follow all of them right now, you will never finish anything. Do what I do: think about them, ponder them, don’t let them get too developed, and write down the ones you want to hold onto, put them in a jar, and… walk away with the biggest, shiniest, most exciting idea you just had. The others will keep. Let them stew in their juices. Focus on THIS IDEA.

2) Reward yourself for finishing things.

If you want to accomplish something, give your Ne what it wants – a challenge, and a reward. I used to motivate myself through “boring” tasks by setting time deadlines and writing like a bat out of hell, or dividing the task up into separate shorter parts that I can cross off after I do them. That shows me I am making progress. Right now, I’m sitting next to a half-crossed-off list of chapters in my book, which I am proof-reading / editing. Each time a pink line goes through someone’s name, I know I’m THIS MUCH CLOSER to finishing. THIS MUCH CLOSER to starting a NEW project. THIS MUCH CLOSER TO THAT PIECE OF CHOCOLATE I PROMISED MYSELF.

Ahem.

3) Accept that you cannot be at 110% all the time.

This may be hard for you to hear, but you’re a normal human being. You need sleep. You need rest. You need food. You need days off, and dates, and to go places, and be with people, and do things other than your job or your school or writing or whatever it is that occupies 90% of your time. Those normal things that a sensor can do without much fuss, wear you out. Tedious details wear you out. Planning wears you out. Keeping track of things wears you out. The temptation when this happens is to under-estimate what you, as a low Si, needs – which is a break. You tend to way overestimate what you can do in a single week, and sometimes you get way too much on your plate… so, if you know about things in advance that are going to “drain” your Ne, because it requires other, lower functions to be heavily used in your stack, plan to limit your interaction with those functions in excess of your responsibilities.

In other words, if you (me) have to do a bunch of tedious line-editing at work, it is not a good idea for me to come home and do… a bunch of tedious line-editing on my novel at the same time. That’s all Te/Si stuff.

Ne-stuff is… new ideas, new people, new philosophies, reading things that excite your mind and imagination and help you see things in a different way, or watching something new, or going somewhere where you can just be yourself. Your Ne cannot run on full power all the time, especially when you’re trying to hold back the freight train – so give yourself permission to take time off.

4) Pace yourself.

This piggybacks on the above, but as a Ne-dom, you way over-estimate how much you can do physically. Things like going places, driving for hours, being in crowds, walking long distances, etc., are tiring to someone with minimal sensing. Ne-doms need down time, to process their experiences. You are an introverted extrovert. Remember that, and give yourself down time. Try not to be out and about 24/7. But don’t stay home all the time either. That’s a cesspool of Ne-draining boredom waiting to happen.

5) Either do it right now or write it down.

My usual pattern is: get a good thought about 10pm. Then springboard into another idea. Then zip over that way for more ideas. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, telling myself to go to sleep, while thinking about everything I should talk about, investigate, or do in the morning. By morning, of course, either the ideas are all gone or I have lost any motivation to do them. Some of my best work is from dropping everything and doing it RIGHT NOW. Strike while the iron is hot, my dander is up, whatever. Some of my best short stories or articles came from getting up at 5am and pounding the keyboard. So, do it NOW… or write it down. If you write it down, you won’t have to try and remember it (also a chore for Ne).

The best things you can do for your Ne are the following:

Accept that this is who I am, and it’s okay.

Realize that mundane or tedious tasks drain your Ne

Let your mind wander

Give yourself permission to fantasize

Reward periods of the mundane with fun activities

Never let a week go by without planning something ‘fun’

Stimulate yourself with constant NEW things (books, movies, music)

Read a wide variety of things on a continual basis

Give yourself challenges and deadlines to beat

Make sure they are SHORT-TERM (you cannot stay too long)

Always have something in the immediate future to look forward to

Hope that helps.

(This week on tumblr has been DULL. Is it just me or is it dead?! Thank God for a new Doctor Who tomorrow! I need me some NEW Capaldi + Bill Potts. I totally want to be her best friend and hang out in space and eat blue cubes together.)

- ENFP Mod

[scribeofthenewworld]

Speculation On Creation

NOTE: this paper was originally written in Chicago format and utilises footnotes. The footnotes are not available in the text below; for the full paper with references, follow the link below:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/11A944lIB8yrlg9Ltai1_8enJ-DIK9413P5lCztlM4iA/edit?usp=sharing 

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth”. A simple enough statement, but under further scrutiny, one wracked with controversy. The creation account in Genesis 1 raises such questions from believers as ‘was the earth really created in six days?’, ‘how much of the creation account is literal, and metaphorical?’, ‘where does science fit into the story of the creation of the world?’, and so forth. This paper will attempt to answer these questions and others like them, as well as examining evidence for and against each of the creation theories and reconciling scientific and Biblical agendas. Although the majority of Christians today seem to adhere mainly to young earth theories of creation, upon examination, the scientific evidence backing any of the old earth creation theories is vastly superior in both credibility and abundance.  

Before embarking on this journey of scientific discovery, a good Christian must take proper inventory of their Biblical angle and thoroughly consider their beliefs. The most important question, in this particular instance, would probably be “Do I take every last thing in the Bible literally?” If answering “yes” to this question, one must then consider “why?” Not to say that the Bible should not be studied and followed, but simply that, in certain cases, taking a literal interpretation makes little sense. Many places in scripture, whole books even, are classified as poetic – Psalms, for example. Why, then, should other parts not be also? Furthermore, “Language differences increase the difficulty of comprehending the meaning of the creation ‘day.’ The entire Old Testament… comes to us from ancient Hebrew”. Most English-speakers simply do not take into account the language gap present when considering the Bible. Yet it remains acutely present – biblical Hebrew contains a few thousand words, as opposed to English’s vernacular of nearly four million. As such, many Hebrew words have multiple potential translations. More than that, though, the very essence of the language differs from English: ancient Hebrew is a rich, poetic, meaningful language, with nuances and structures that no one who has not studied it can hope to understand. The language’s nature being thus, the Hebrew Bible was written not with the intent of providing precise, scientifically-acute data, but of conveying to its reader the character and might of God. Moreover, the Hebrew culture differed astronomically from ours in many aspects, one of which being its unconcern with precision and hard fact; the Hebrews were much less concerned with hard science and time. Rather, the ancient Hebrew language emphasized poeticism and meaning, being more ‘big picture oriented’ than English. The discontinuity between the two creation accounts in Genesis accentuates this; had the tales been transcribed literally, each would contradict the other. Within the context of poetic imagery, however, each can be appreciated as a tribute to creation and God’s creative splendor. 

Now bearing all this in mind, one can further contend interpretation of the Biblical creation accounts. Before engaging in more intensive speculation, though, one must keep in mind this: true science does not contradict scripture, for scripture does not contradict facts of the natural world. “Both the Old and New Testaments emphasize the importance of testing, of making sure the evidence supports truth claims”. God created a world of order, with laws and functions comprehensible to man; therefore, it should stand to reason that not only can science and scripture exist compatibly, but harmoniously. Now, it is surely no disputed matter that differences in scriptural interpretation can be met with some quarrel. Yet to properly assess one’s points of belief, one must put aside emotional responses and examine the facts. Foremost, one must consider the intended meaning of the word “day” in Genesis. The Hebrew word translated as “day”, yôm (יוֹם) is used “to indicate any of four time periods: (a) some portion of the daylight (hours), (b) sunrise to sunset, (c) sunset to sunset, or (d) a segment of time without any reference to solar days (from weeks to a year to several years to an age or epoch)”. It is entirely possible, therefore, that the “days” to which Genesis 1 refers are not twenty-four-hour days at all, but indiscriminate amounts of time. Moreover, Psalm 90:3 states “A thousand years in your sight [o Lord] are like a day that has just gone by, or like a watch in the night”, and again, “But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day”. Because God exists outside any human concept of time, he need not conform to any specific timeframe. Also, mankind did not even exist for the first five “days” of creation, so man’s concept of time would have been irrelevant in any case; God’s only timeframe would have been his own. 

The most compelling evidence for the earth’s age, however, can be found in the earth itself. It should be noted that, for the sake of the length of this paper, explanation of scientific processes and methods must be minimal, if not forgone altogether. Keeping this in mind, the most common method for precise dating, radiometric dating, measures the presence of long-lived radioactive ‘parent’ isotopes and their stable ‘daughter’ isotopes in minerals. Over time, radioactive elements decay into lighter elements, which is one of the ways scientists know the earth to be at least one billion years old – those radioactive elements with shorter half-lives cannot be found that originated in the earth’s crust. Radiometric dating puts the oldest mineral fragment ever found (zircon), according to the journal Nature Geoscience, at 4.375 billion years old, give or take about six million. Obviously, this is significantly longer ago than some people believe the earth to have even existed. What to think? To begin with, radiometric dating has been proven one of the most accurate methods of mineral dating used due to the variety of radioisotopes and the constancy of decay; its (notably slight) error margin accounts almost entirely for timeframe miscalculation (different radiometric methods are used to date relics from different time periods). To examine the constancy of decay, one must understand that “radioactive decay is the process whereby an unstable nucleus either ejects or captures particles, transforming the radioactive nucleotide into an isotope of another element”. Decay constancy can be expected for two reasons: first, atomic nuclei are extremely well insulated by their electron cloud, preventing them from interacting with other atoms’ nuclei. Second, the energy required for nuclear changes is 106 times greater than that involved in chemical activity – an energy level naturally attainable only in nuclear reactions. Because radioactive decay necessitates elemental transmutation, and therefore nuclear changes, such an unlikely interference of external factors means that, barring some fundamental change in the nature of matter and energy, rates of decay have remained constant. 

The cosmos serves as another huge indicator as to the passage of time. The better part of the universe remains largely mysterious to man – he has neither the technology nor the time to explore deep space. Still, man has discovered quite a goodly amount about his own solar system, to his credit. Based on much of the knowledge garnered by astronomers and astrophysicists, science has been able to ascertain the age of the universe. NASA’s oldest estimation of the universe falls around 13.7 billion years old – far older than planet earth, they posit. These conclusions were reached by extensive study of sound and light waves and how long they take to reach earth, and of the background microwave radiation avowedly produced at the dawn of the universe. Additionally, the majority of meteorites that have fallen to earth have been dated at between 4.4 and 4.6 billion years, and the oldest recorded supernova has been dated back a measured 4.3 million years; because “supernova explosions occur only when a massive star has burned up nearly all its nuclear fuel... this burning process takes several million years – even longer for less massive stars”. Therefore, all white dwarfs claim that age, at least. Moreover, by study of ancient galaxy clusters, astronomers have been able to determine that some stars therein date back tens of millions of years by comparing them with more newly formed adjacent stars. As a matter of fact, the simple reality that things billions of lightyears away can be observed attests to the solar system’s exceptional age; “lightyear” refers to the distance light can travel in a year, ergo light-sources billions of lightyears away would yet be unobservable were the solar system young, for the light from them would not as of yet have had sufficient time to reach earth. As a matter of fact, an excerpt from Perspectives on Science and Christian Faith notes, “Space and time, the cosmological coordinates, are correlative. Interlocking of the two is pronounced in God's seventh day rest, a temporal concept that connotes the spatial reality of the holy site of God's enthronement. Also indicative of their correlation is the giving of the temporal names ‘day’ and ‘night’ to the spatial phenomena of light and darkness [Gen. 1:5]”.

Likely the most controversial affair within science today, particularly among theists, is evolution. While evolution remains technically a theory, nearly overwhelming evidence exists in its favour and it represents a fundamental piece of biological history. To clarify, the term “evolution” is used here to express the concept of microevolution. Evolution does not purport to know how the first life came to be upon this earth, nor does it automatically posit the so-called “Big Bang Theory”. However, usually when one says they do not believe in “evolution”, it automatically connotes both evolutionary concepts. Such a claim sounds a bit foolish, if not downright absurd. First of all, the evidence for microevolution is abundant enough that it could very nearly be considered confirmed; furthermore, it is treated by the scientific community as fact. The most popular example of this principle in action is the study of the Galapagos Finches, however a clearer example lies in the sudden emergence of complex multicellular organisms (Eukaryotes) in the fossil record, following the Proterozoic period. Evolution within species causes an organism to adapt to its environment through mutation – in this way, they are better able to survive. It is not the subversion of species separation, but simply the division of already-existing species.

The tenets for young earth creationism are numerous; therefore, as much of the science forming the groundwork for various young earth arguments has already been discussed, from here on shall focus primarily on the different young earth views and their theological premises. One theory, “mature creationism”, postulates that God created the earth with an appearance of age, just as he presumably created Adam and Eve as mature adults. The problem with this theory is its inference that God not only created an earth that looked old, but that had every detail of an age to which it could not truly contend. To what end would God scatter fossils and mud cracks about in the sediment to make the earth look unnecessarily ancient? It would accomplish naught but confusion for his people, and worse, it would make him a deceiver -- something that God most decidedly is not. The other popular young earth position, called “flood geology”, speculates that the flood in Genesis 6-9 severely altered the geology of the earth’s crust, giving it an appearance of advanced age. This theory hypothesizes that the flood spanned the entirety of the earth, wiping out all -- plants, animals, and humans alike. However, the case for a geographically global flood lacks both Biblical and scientific basis – in fact, Psalm 104:7-9 seems to directly contradict the thought. Furthermore, the Hebrew word used throughout the Old Testament commonly translated as “world” was ‘erets (אֶרֶץ), which can also be translated to mean “land” or “country”. In fact, it was more commonly used to mean “land” than “earth”! Additionally, geographic evidence stands in opposition to flood geology; fossils, impressions, and patterns within sedimentary structures in other areas of the world bespeak no great hydraulic catastrophe.

Probably the most vexing young earth queries are those involving the question of death before the fall; obviously (assuming the advanced age of the earth), death of animals would have had to occur for fossils to be deposited as they are, and had animal death not occurred beforehand the planet would have been nearly overrun by the time the creation of man occurred. It then stands to reason that God’s creation was not entirely perfect, even before the introduction of sin. Yet, Genesis never says anything about God calling his creation perfect; Hebrew has multiple words that could be potentially translated as “perfect”, and God used none of them. Rather, he used the word tôv (טוֹב), which simply means “good”. As “good” presents a far more vague definition than “perfect”, it can be argued that an imperfect creation involving physical death could still be considered “good”. Since God (presumably) did not create animals with the same moral distinguishments as man, sin did not exist before him (“sin” meaning willful deviance from God’s instruction). This premanifestation of physical death may make sense even with concern to pre-fall humans – in part, due to the language used when forbidding consumption of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil: rather than simply using the regular form of the Hebrew word for “die”, môt (מֹות), God used an intensified form (מֹות תָּמֽוּת). This indicates a more extreme sort of death than mere physical death: spiritual death. The fact that God said post-fall “He [man] must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever” backs this up; God would not have needed to proscribe man from the tree of life were he already predestined to live forever, be it in the physical or the spiritual sense. 

Ross makes the statement that “Current culture subscribes to this false dichotomy: facts and faith don’t mix. Yet the Bible claims that faith is built on reasonable evidence”. It seems silly, then, that some scorn evidence and fact on the part of faith, when in reality neither need jeopardize the other. It is true that some questions exist to which no one can ever truly know the answer. Yet, whilst man dwells upon this earth, should he not seek to study and understand it to the best of his ability? Earth is mans’ God-granted home, and as such man should not view attempts to explain and fathom it as heretical, but as explorative and progressive. God did not beget for man a random world, but one that can be ordered, analyzed, and explained; therefore, it stands to reason that he desires humanity to explore and decipher their home. The world God created for his people makes wonderful sense, and one day when everything is revealed, people will also be able to look at the gloriously harmonious congruity of creation and say “it is good”.  

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