#sinker's daughter

[nicodemuslily]

And we continue with the (half-)clone-tober! /o/

Here are the portraits of all the babies born from clones in my AU. Can you guess who are the fathers? :D

Normally, I drew them in the order of their birth (Iniya and Hajar are twins). Normally because my timeline is a little bit messy. XD 

[techs-feral-wife]

Choose between Tech or Sinker 😏

T u l i p

I-

My hyperfixation vs the love of my life????

I already gave the OC I made for Tech to Sinker, I can't give him my heart as well-

Tech 💕

[endless-ineffabilities]

Chemical Override (bonus chapter 4) - Above The Gods Eye

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I had envisioned bonus chapters as not too integral to the main plot (as in, you will be able to follow the story without reading them), but this one... this one might just count.

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

A series of moments from the vault, occurring in part eight of the story, now yours to enjoy. 🤍

The one with the second sons…

The photoshoot has wrapped, and the cast of House of the Dragon has drifted into all corners of the set, exchanging laughs in between much-needed sips of caffeine. The next item on Entertainment Weekly’s agenda is the video segment recordings, pairing cast members for various games and interviews.

Fabien and Freddie finished their narrative recap of season 2, with more jokes than actual informative recaps. Harry and Bethany played a game where they guessed whether the line is from House of the Dragon or Game of Thrones. Tom and Emma played a ‘which sibling' game, leaning into the dynamic between Aegon and Rhaenyra that clearly should have been explored in previous seasons.

As it happens, Matt and Ewan are paired up for an Aemond or Daemon game, meant to give the audiences a glimpse of what to look forward to. Their notorious rivalry, culminating in a battle that will be their last. 

The two film their segment in Studio E, the set consisting of the great cellar of the Red Keep where Balerion’s massive skull looms on a pedestal. The dozens of candles surrounding it have been lit, casting dramatic shadows as they take their seats, facing each other in what could easily be mistaken for the start of a duel.

“My name is Ewan Mitchell and I play Aemond Targaryen,” Ewan starts.

“And I’m Matt and I play the Daemon Targaryen,” Matt follows. “And we’re about to play Second Sons: Aemond vs Daemon.”

“Let’s go,” Ewan rolls his shoulders, his sense of competitiveness all fired up, intensified by the fact that the man in front of him potentially could become his rival off-screen. That is, when it concerns the battle for your affections. 

He can still hear it ringing in his ears, the sound of your laughter in the background, distracting him during the photoshoot. That laugh, so addictive, so yours, was a melody he could listen to forever - except when it’s Matt Smith who’s the culprit. 

The lads take their cue to read the first prompt displayed on a screen above the camera. The game begins. 

“Who is the better swordsman?” Matt reads aloud with a smirk. “Well, that’s obviously Daemon, mate. He’s older - ”

“Age doesn’t always mean better,” Ewan counters smoothly.

“Ah, but he’s battle-tested. He fought in the Stepstones, and was the Commander of the City Watch, for heaven’s sake. What’s Aemond got?”

“Aemond spent years and years training with Criston Cole in the Red Keep yard, honing his skill,” Ewan argues. “He clearly has the dedication. He’s disciplined.”

“Training,” Matt scoffs, turning to the camera as if sharing an inside joke. “Put Aemond out there in a real battle, then we’ll talk.” 

“Alright, alright,” Ewan concedes, biting his cheek to keep from saying more. “Next one. Who’s the better dancer at the royal ball?”

Matt can’t help but chuckle, “Neither of us are inclined to - ”

“Yeah, I don’t know.”

“But if we had to pick, then I'd say Daemon. We saw him dancing in the first season, didn’t we?”

“I don’t think Aemond would be much of a dancer,” Ewan says, before adding with a smirk to the camera, “unless it’s with Vhagar.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt asks him. “Short of dancing partners, is he? Can’t say I’ve got that problem. I’ve got Rhaenyra, I’ve got my daughters, and of course, the lovely Alyna.” His voice drops at the mention of your character, and he notices a telling flicker in Ewan’s expression. The younger boy latches on to it, hook, line and sinker. 

Ewan’s brows scrunch, not missing the bait. “Oh, she wouldn’t dance with you,” flies out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

“Alyna wouldn’t?” Matt tilts his head, feigning hurt. 

“She’s… she’s too busy fighting the war,” Ewan quickly musters. “She’s got better things to do.”

“Mate, I think we all are. But that wasn’t the question.”

“I just don’t think she - ”

“She’ll dance with Daemon,” Matt says confidently. “Once she realises how good he is, then it’s game over.”

“I disagree,” Ewan easily says to the camera, willing the viewers to side with him.

“Next,” Matt continues, “Who’s more likely to get into a fight at the tavern? Is this… so far, it's been all Daemon! This one too.”

Ewan nods, but adds slyly, “Aemond’s not one to waste his time at the tavern, no.” His answer is an apparent concession to Daemon, until he adds, “which is why Alyna would prefer to spend her time with him. He’s calmer… more reliable… no unnecessary tavern brawls or anything…”

“Calmer, mate?” Matt rolls his eyes, chuckling to himself. “Come off it, yeah?”

“Compared to Daemon, he clearly is.”

“He killed Luke and Rhaenys!”

“That was an accident,” Ewan shrugs. “He feels bad for it.”

“Alyna better steer clear,” Matt points to the camera, making his point. 

Ewan shakes his head in protest, “I don’t agree.”

“So, for this one, again, it’s Daemon,” Matt finishes. 

Ewan lets it go, the Alyna comment lingering in the back of his mind. It didn’t seem like an Alyna reference; it felt like a message to you. His stomach twists, suspicious of the other game Matt seems to be playing at. Turning to the prompter, Ewan reads, “Who’s got… the better hair care routine? Oh wow.”

“Daemon’s been at some dingy castle,” Matt says, “clearly no showers there. Forget it.”

“Aemond’s got this locked down,” Ewan grins.

“Has he? Alright then,” Matt responds, amused. “He does have that pin-straight hair, doesn’t he? It’s almost like… well it’s almost like it’s a bloody wig!” He laughs, and some of the onlookers behind the camera mirror the sentiment. 

“I did read somewhere about Aemond having a 20-step hair care routine… ”

“20 steps? Blimey, mate. I’m surprised he even makes it out the door,” Matt says. “Would you say he’s got better hair than the women on the show? Than Alicent or Alyna maybe?”

“Oh,” Ewan leans back, mulling it over. How to one-up Matt without making it seem too obvious? He’s about to respond, when he hears some soft giggling in the corner. It appears that you’ve made your way into Studio E with Phia and Liv. The sound came from Phia, who gives him a thumbs up when she notices his diverted attention. 

Matt notices your presence too, and when the director waves a hand for them to carry on, he answers for Ewan, “We could say Aemond has the better hair. Alyna’s way too busy training with Daemon anyway. We do tend to get into that rough and tumble during our sword fights.”

“Mmm,” Ewan narrows his eyes. He then ignores or conveniently forgets the fact that it’s Matt's turn to read the next question. “Who’s more likely to fight a dragon for their lover?” 

The two men lock eyes, the air between them charged, more so due to your appearance. If a rivalry is what the viewers expect, then that is what they’ll get. 

Matt puts a hand up. “I think Daemon’s the one with the guts to fight a bloody dragon. Daemon will stand against anything and anyone. Without a doubt.”

“It’s different with him, though, isn’t it?” Ewan responds. “Daemon would be doing it for the glory. He’d be doing it for himself. Whereas Aemond… he’d be doing it out of pure devotion.”

“Are you talking about the same devotion he had for his brother? I’d say he’s more likely to burn his lover to a crisp, than fight a dragon for her.”

“There is a completely different dynamic with his brother,” Ewan explains. “I think that when Aemond falls in love, there is nothing at all that he wouldn’t do for them. In season 2, we already kind of saw him leaning into this reputation of being the most wanted man in the realm. So… he’d fight anything for his lover, that’s for sure. He’d burn the seven kingdoms down if necessary.” He turns to look at the camera, but he catches your eye instead. You’re shaking your head slightly at his answer, but the small smile that graces your lips tells him that you enjoyed it. 

He simpers at your apparent show of approval, but Matt cuts the shared moment short. 

“I think Aemond’s a young buck,” Matt says, “who’s desperate to make his mark. He wouldn’t know the first thing about devotion. But Daemon… that’s been his internal struggle this whole time. He’s proven that he stands behind his brother and Rhaenyra, no matter how much he tries to act to the contrary. But yeah, we’re going a bit off track here. What was the question? Who’d fight a dragon… ”

“For their lover,” Ewan finishes. “I would still say Aemond. Daemon is too unpredictable.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Matt wags his eyebrows at him. “But I’m standing by my answer. We clearly saw Daemon basically pledge himself to Rhaenyra in the last episode. What more proof do you need?”

“Aemond’s got something up his sleeve,” Ewan says. “He just wants to be loved, that’s it, and when he finds that, there’ll be no question of what he’s capable of doing for Al - ” He catches himself at the last second, before he fully lets slip your character’s name. “I mean - ”

Matt’s eyes light up, sensing an opportunity. “For Alys, you mean?” To the camera, he adds, “spoiler alert, everyone.”

“Right,” Ewan lets out a breath, “Of course.”

“Can’t be anyone else,” Matt challenges him. 

“I don’t know for now,” Ewan tries to keep up. 

“You currently have a bit of a lack in the lover department,” Matt smirks. 

Ewan narrows his eyes at the apparent insinuation. He better be referring to the show. “Fine, then, we can give this one to Daemon. But as to their real-life counterparts,” he locks eyes with you again, “who’s to say? I bet I have this in the bag.”

Matt follows his line of sight, pleased when your attention switches to him. “I think that’s yet to be decided.”

“Alright, we’ve got some more,” Ewan quickly says, in an attempt to divert Matt’s gaze from you. 

Matt reads, “Who’s more likely to maintain a good social media presence? Oh, bloody hell, we’re crossing over into uncharted territory with this one.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I’ve never touched it myself,” Matt shrugs. “I’m not on anything, only Facebook for a moment ages ago, but I did not have any desire in going back. Oh wait, we’re meant to answer for our characters. Apologies.”

“Hmm,” Ewan nods. “I don’t know if Aemond would be on social media, no.”

“Yeah, this is a weird question,” Matt says. “Maybe Daemon then? But only to post pictures of Caraxes or something. What do you think?”

“Yeah, Daemon can take this one,” Ewan replies. “Personally, I’m not on social media too much - ”

“But didn’t you jump into the fray recently? With… which one was it?”

“Instagram? Yeah, yeah, that was something.” His mind flashes back to the pictures he had up, both attesting to his love for you. But you had asked him to take the latest one down, which led him to deactivate the account altogether. Temporarily. If the fans assumed that the action was meant to symbolise an end of his involvement with you, then now would be the perfect opportunity to prove them wrong. “I did have to take a step back, because it was kind of overwhelming. I just needed to take some proper time off.”

“Oh really? I wouldn’t know,” Matt says. “Did you actually share some photos there?”

Ewan smiles, pleased at being able to answer this question. “Yeah, I shared a few of my most treasured ones. They were some great pictures, but I’ve got loads more of the same in my phone, and I - ” He throws a warning glance to the camera “ - I think I’ll be keeping those to myself for now.”

Matt, oblivious as to what he’s hinting at, reads the next one. “Who’s the better brother?”

“Aemond for sure.”

“Clearly Daemon.”

And so the banter continues for a couple more prompts, sharp yet flowing naturally, foreshadowing the frenzied fan reactions when the segment is shared online for all to see. 

The one where Ewan needs his cowgirl…

Ewan paces around his dressing room, settling into his outfit, awaiting his cue from set. The outfit is a bold mix of traditional Western elements and high fashion: a tailored deep brown leather jacket with intricate embroidery, a crisp white shirt with ruffled cuffs, fitted trousers, and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. His boots click against the wooden floor as he moves. He’s nervous but determined to impress you, even though it’s always been you with a knack for making his heart race.

After a while, he makes his way out of the dressing room and into the bustling set. The set is decked out to the theme. The director and crew are scattered all around, but Ewan focuses solely on finding you. 

When he finally does, his world seems to slow down. You are standing near a vintage saddle, dressed in your own Western-inspired attire. Your smile is radiant as you speak to your assistant, and the way your eyes light up when you see him makes his heart skip a beat. No, it never gets old, he realises, you will always have a maddening effect on him.

He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and saunters over with as much swagger as he could muster. “Howdy, darling,” he greets in his best cowboy lilt.

You look him up and down with a smile. “Why, hello, good sir,” you say, even doing a playful curtsy. 

“Ready to give them a show?” he asks, gesturing to the expanse of the set. Ready to be my cowgirl, darling? He wants to ask instead. 

You hum a response. “As I’ll ever be. I’d say you’re a natural at this whole cowboy thing.”

“Oh, darling,” he smirks, “you’d be surprised by what I can do with my lasso.”

“Down, Mitchell.”

“Whatever you want, my cowgirl.”

The atmosphere is electric throughout the shoot, with Ewan constantly leaning down to whisper suggestive lines in your ear. 

He finds himself getting lost in the intensity of the shoot, but his focus remains on you. It isn’t as if you are making it easy on him, with your lingering touches and flirtatious remarks. 

The camera's shutter clicks away, and Ewan and you pose for one perfect shot after another. The set is alive with activity, but he only sees you, the lighting casting a warm glow on your rouge-stained cheeks. Forgetting where he is for a moment, his hand reaches up to caress your face, and he leans in slightly. 

You pose accordingly, likely thinking that he’s just giving the shoot what it demands. 

“What was that you were saying about a lasso?” you smirk, in an attempt to diffuse the tension, but it only spurs him on. 

“Care for a demonstration?” he shoots back.

“Why not?” you reply easily, adjusting your stance. 

“We may need a more intimate setting for that, darling.”

“More intimate than this?” you laugh breathlessly, the warmth of it fanning his face. He’s close enough that the tip of his nose brushes against yours. 

He smiles, deaf to the low warning that escapes your lips when he leans in for a kiss on instinct. 

Just as his lips are about to graze yours, the director’s voice cuts through the charged silence.

“Cut! Break, everyone!”

The spell is broken instantly. Ewan pulls back, his expression shifting from one of intense concentration to surprise and a hint of frustration. 

You stand facing each other, flustered and left wanting. Ewan wants nothing more than to just reach for you and pull you in a closet, and show just how well he can use that bloody lasso. If you want him to. But he forces himself to croak, “To be continued, darling?”

You mirror his heated gaze, nodding once, before turning on your heel and heading to the break room. 

When the set is mostly emptied, Ewan picks up the hefty lasso that’s been put aside. With a determined look on his face, he swings it expertly through the air, causing a resounding thwack. The movement is deliberate, a release of his frustrations about you. About Matt. About everything. 

But it doesn’t quite bring him the relief he needs, because only you can offer that. 

It’s only ever been you. 

The one with the first date…

You glance at your phone to check the time, heart fluttering with anticipation. Matt had promised to pick you up at 2, and it is only a minute past, but you’re already standing nervously in your living room. Not a moment too soon, your buzzer alerts you of his arrival, and you press the button to allow him upstairs. 

You sneak one more glance at the mirror, smoothing a hand over your t-shirt and jeans. You opted for a casual look, dressed up with some jewelry and heeled boots. 

Finally, there’s a knock at the door and you grab your purse as you walk up to meet your awaited visitor. 

There he is, standing in the doorway, as impossibly charming as ever. Matt’s dressed in a perfectly fitted black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, paired with staple dark jeans. His tousled hair looks like he ran a hand through it on his way over, and his signature mischievous grin plays at the corners of his mouth as he takes you in.

“Hello there,” he greets cheerfully.

“Hey, Smithy,” you blush under his gaze. 

“You look absolutely incredible,” he says, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over you, “As can be expected. You are my Alyna, after all.”

“Thanks,” you manage to say, your voice soft, almost breathless. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Glad to hear it. I was worried I’d underdressed,” he teases, though the way he carries himself shows that he knows exactly how good he looks. He steps a little closer, his hand lightly grazing your arm as he does. 

“You ready to go?” he asks, his voice just a shade deeper, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that still catches you off guard, no matter how exposed you have been to his charms.

“Yeah,” you nod, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, the air between you thick with tension. “Let’s do this.”

The late afternoon air is crisp as you walk with Matt down a quiet street near Hyde Park. The anticipation from earlier has settled into something more relaxed, yet there’s still an undercurrent of excitement, an unspoken awareness of the new territory you’re both navigating.

Matt leads you to a small café tucked away from the bustle of the city. It’s quaint, with ivy creeping up the walls and soft lights glowing through the windows. As you step inside, the rich aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries envelops you, and you can’t help but smile. The interior is just as charming as the exterior, and a few patrons sit scattered throughout, each absorbed in their own worlds. Too absorbed to notice two somewhat renowned actors entering the premises.

“Pick a spot,” Matt says, his hand gently brushing the small of your back. The touch is fleeting, but it’s enough to send a warm tingle up your spine.

You choose the table with a view of the park just beyond the glass. Ever the gentleman, Matt pulls out a chair for you before settling into the one across from you.

“Hope you like this place,” he says, his tone easy and genuine. “It’s one of my favourites. Feels like a bit of an escape from everything, you know?”

“It’s perfect,” you reply, taking in the cozy atmosphere. “I can see why you come here.”

A waitress comes over to take your order, and Matt gives you his recommendations which you happily go along with. The familiar way with which she addresses him as Mr. Smith confirms his frequent visits. Once she leaves, you lean back in your chair, letting yourself relax into the moment, though you are aware of his eyes watching you the entire time. 

“So, how are you finding the city? It’s different from set life, that’s for sure.” Matt asks, his eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and something deeper. Something you can’t pinpoint just yet, though it’s not unfamiliar. You’ve seen that look before. From Ewan. The sudden thought of him drives a wedge in your focus, and you have to shake it off before you answer.

“It’s been great,” you say, smiling. “It’s nice to be able to explore it more this time around, since I've got some downtime. And, of course, the company’s been pretty good too.” You add the last part with a playful tone, which makes him chuckle.

“Oh, I’m sure it has,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eye. “But don’t let Ewan monopolise all your time. I’m around if you ever need a break from him.”

The mention of Ewan brings a subtle shift in the conversation. It’s light, but there’s a hint of something more - an awareness of the connection you share with Ewan that both complicates what you have, or what you could have, with Matt. 

“You’re a good friend, Matt,” you say, your tone still light but more sincere. “I appreciate that.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “Friend, sure,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “But, just so you know… I’m here, if you ever want more than that.”

It’s a simple statement, but the weight of it hangs in the air between you. He’s not pressing, not trying to make you uncomfortable, but it’s clear that he’s laying his cards on the table. Matt’s always had a way of being direct without being pushy, and this moment is no different.

You meet his gaze, feeling the sincerity behind his words. There’s a part of you that’s tempted, drawn in by the way he makes you laugh and feel seen. But there’s something - someone - holding you back. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you reply, smiling softly. 

Matt nods again, his smile resurfaces, as sure as the sun rising. “That’s all I ask.”

The waitress returns with your coffee and pastries, breaking the tension with the clink of cups and the sweet scent of buttery croissants. 

After a moment, Matt takes a sip from his own cup and raises an eyebrow. “You know, I heard that drinking coffee in a café like this can increase your charm significantly. I think it’s working, do you?”

You play along, pretending to consider this. “Hmm, I don’t think you need help in that department. But… I’ll still be careful. Just in case you charm me into agreeing to a second date.”

Matt leans closer with a grin. “Second date? Love, if I’m being honest, I’m already planning our third date.”

The conversation shifts back to lighter topics - your favourite places in the city, funny stories from the set, and his many revealing anecdotes about Fabien. Like the one where he got properly sloshed after a night out at the pub, so much so that he stuck some croissants in his washing machine thinking it was the oven. 

“To his defense,” Matt exclaims as you giggle uncontrollably, “the two appliances are similarly shaped!”

As the date progresses, you feel undeniably warm and comfortable in Matt’s presence, but you also can’t ignore the lingering thoughts of Ewan. Your phone had buzzed at some point, and when you snuck a glance at the screen, it lit up to reveal three missed calls from Ewan One-Eye. He knows you’re on a date, so he must be interrupting on purpose. Thankfully, Matt’s enthusiastic regaling keeps you from lingering on Ewan - from worrying about him, missing him… from wishing that he could freely allow himself to take you on a date just like this. 

As you and Matt stroll back to your apartment, the city lights cast a warm glow on the pavement, creating a magical backdrop for the end of your evening. His arm around your shoulders brings you a sense of ease, and you no longer feel that nervous flush as earlier. 

He walks with you inside your building, and when you reach the door to your apartment, Matt pauses by the entrance, turning to face you with a gentle smile. “Well, this has been quite the evening,” he says. “I’m really glad we got to do this.”

You return his smile. “Me too. It’s been a lovely night.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, a shared look that speaks volumes without words. 

“Well, I - ” you swallow, your nerves returning, “I better head inside.”

As you reach for your keys, Matt’s hand gently wraps around yours, causing a jolt of electricity to travel up your arm. “Before you do,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.”

You look up at him. Screw your newfound sense of ease. Your heartbeat now pounds in your ears like an erratic drum. “Oh? And what’s that?” But something tells you that you know just what he means. 

Without breaking eye contact, Matt leans in slowly, his face drifting closer.

“This,” he mumbles the word as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. And then his lips touch yours.

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @onlyrealjoy @hotdismylife @thepurplecrown @just-fics-station @clarkysblog @urmomsgirlfriend1 @misfitbimbosblog (continued in comments ... )

Some notes in the margins...

This poll caused quite the stir amongst yous, I see. Consider me amused. Since part 9 isn't out yet, and my mind isn't set either - if you've got something to let off your chest, some supporting arguments, you've got one more chance to let me know below (or let each other know) 😉 I always read all your opinions, and they are properly taken into account. What did you think of Matty after this?

When Ewan called her at the end of part eight, do you think she had company? Anyway, something sweet is coming in part nine with Ewan and his darling!

To those who are seriously worried about the outcome, note that is and always has been a Ewan x reader fic. I am a Ewan girl just like yous. Hold fast and have fun on the wild ride, darlings 💙

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One

The drive's short one. 

Steve gets out of his car, opening the passenger door for Chrissy and escorting her up to the house, quietly envisioning what Jason would look like if a real monster got him.

What would he say, staring down the crazy, five-starred head, filled with teeth and drool? Would he turn back? Or run?

(Steve swears he doesn't take great pleasure in imagining Carver getting eaten, but he'll admit to taking a little.)  

"Chrissy do you have any idea--oh." Mrs. Cunningham startles, grasping her robe at the front as she spots Steve standing next to her daughter.  

"Hi Miss Cunningham." He says.

"Hello." She says suspiciously. "And who are you?"

"I'm Steve Harrington, ma'am." He watches as her mother straightens immediately at his name, and sinks right into the ol' Harrington charm, knowing instantly it will work. "I know you were expecting Jason, but I'm afraid he wasn't able to drive Chrissy home." 

"Oh, Steve! It's so late I almost didn't recognize you." She titters, suspicion gone. "Your mother and I are on the same charity board." 

Of course they were.

"I thought you were dating that nice Nancy girl." She says with a squint that mimics Chrissy's, because even in the midst of a crisis he can't escape the gossip that is Hawkins upper echelon. 

"Nance is waiting in the car." Steve lies smoothly. "I just wanted to make sure Chrissy got home safe." 

"What happened?" Chrissy's father appears, ushering them both in while blatantly peering around them, eyes sweeping the street before closing the door.

Steve recognizes the move. He's checking for nosy neighbors. 

"Jason and I broke up." Chrissy admits.

"What?" 

"We..." She falters in front of her parents. 

"What happened to Jason?" Her father asks, tuning back in once they're safely away from peering eyes.

"I'm afraid Jason and some of his friends brought beer to the party." Steve steps in to explain.  

"Oh Chrissy, it's a high school party. That's no reason to break up with him." Her mother fusses, face flushing in embarrassment. Her eyes dart from her daughter to Steve and back, and Steve knows he needs to start damage control. 

If he plays it right he can burn Jason while he's at it. 

"He was horrible, mom. Just awful." Chrissy says, but Steve can tell she's shrinking under her mothers gaze. 

"He drank quite a lot, Miss Cunningham." With a theatrical wince, Steve turns to face Chrissy's dad, lowers his voice and says "I'm going to have to talk to Coach about it." 

He gets the intended response, which is a raised eyebrow. "That bad, huh?" 

Steve nods once, painting a pained smile on his face. "He made a real fool of himself tonight, Sir. The basketball team has a reputation to uphold." 

"Oh." Mrs. Cunningham says, hand fluttering in front of her face. "I never would have thought…"

"He's normally a good guy. I don't know what got into him." Steve has them both eating out of the palm of his hand, attention neatly off Chrissy and onto the story he's feeding them. 

Its worth it to see her shoulders relax. 

"I couldn't let him take Chrissy home in the state he was in Sir, and he got very…" 

Steve pauses. 

Fills his voice with tempered disappointment, channeling his dad. "Belligerent. Said some nasty things."  

"Really?" Mr. Cunningham says, with a low whistle, and Steve knows by his tone alone that he's bought in.

Hook, line, sinker.

Steve nods once. "I have to get back to my girlfriend, but Chrissy'" He turns earnestly here, to let her know he's not faking this next bit. "Let me know if Jason bothers you at school. I'll set him straight again if I have to." 

"Thank you Steve." Mr. Cunningham says, as Chrissy's mom hustles her daughter towards the kitchen. 

Steve shakes his hand, then waves at Crissy as she calls her own thank you over her shoulder, before disappearing out the door and back to his car.

The same one where Nancy very much isn't. 

That's a problem for tomorrow Steve.

xXx

Tomorrow Steve gets into an argument with Nancy. 

She can't recall that Jonathan took her home, or that he's bullshit, their whole relationship, bullshit--

But she also can't tell him she loves him.

So Steve snaps at her. Storms off.

 Play’s more basketball.

It takes less than two hours for him to get mopey and another three for him to spiral into deciding he was wrong somehow.

That's what his mom said all the time anyway, wasn't it? The man's always wrong Steven, and he's the man here so…

He gets flowers, chocolates, and fucking waylaid (by Dustin Henderson with his Grow a Monster) and things go sideways from there.

 Train tracks and a junkyard and demodogs make time speed up. An encounter with Billy and a dinner plate causes Steve's recollection of the evening to be fuzzy. 

He just knows that in the middle of dodging death, he has the realization that Nance wants to break up with him.

That he should let her. 

Even if it hurts, even if he doesn't want to. 

She wants to be let go.

So Steve does. He respects her, and when he has a moment after its all over, he tells her to go with Jonathan.

(At least he permanently gets the squirts out if this. Or at least everyone but Mike.

Even if most of them are shitheads and one of them's Hargrove's step sister.

It's--something.

But when Dustin keeps pestering him, demanding Steve drive him all over Hawkins and then drags him to the movies, well.

It might be the best something Steve's had in his life so far. )

xXx

"Oh shit. Is that from Caver?" Eddie asks, popping up near Steve's car like the clown in a jack in the box. 

"Carver can't hit for shit. This was Hargrove." Steve replies, attempting an eyeroll before remembering that his entire face is a bruise. 

One, giant, never ending bruise. 

"I guess his step sister gave him the slip to come hang out with these kids I watch sometimes. I didn't know she wasn't supposed to be there." Steve shrugs, because it's the technical truth. 

If you turn it sideways and squint anyway. 

"Asshole tried to threaten the kid Max is into by slamming him into a wall and screaming shit, so I stepped in, and--" He waves at his face. 

The same one he's already getting looks for. 

"I was winning." Steve sighs theatrically. "He broke a plate over my head."

The story seemed to freeze Eddie but he recovers with a quick shake of his head. 

"You poor thing." He tuts. "Let me guess--you were more worried about the hair than the wound?" 

Eddie's hands flutter like he's going to touch Steve's head but he seems to contain himself at the last minute.

The hospital threatened to buzz it for stitches." Steve says darkly, playing into the bit. 

(He had not gone to a hospital. 

None of them had.)  

"What would our King be without his crown of hair?" Eddie laments, in a falsetto that was half insult half oddly sincere. It was jarring in that it was hard to get a read on, but the more Steve was around the guy the less it seemed malicious and the more it came off  as just….goofy.

Eddie Munson, Steve decided, was not a freak.

 He was a dorky little weirdo, just like all the other kids Steve now hung out with. 

Just older, and with slightly better hair. 

"Hey Eddie." Another boy calls out, approaching cautiously. 

He's got a leather jacket on, and if Steve thinks hard enough he can sort of conjure up a memory of the guy at Eddie's lunch table, throwing a piece of bread at a pale sophomore decked out in plaid. "You good man?" 

"Yeah Jeff, just checkin' in on the Hair here." Eddie sticks a thumb towards Steve, who raises his hand and waves. 

The falsetto comes back, somehow higher as the older boy swoons over Steves arm. "Soothing his poor soul after that brute Hargrove almost killed him." 

"Has anyone ever told you you're a lot like Bugs Bunny?" Steve asks, the thought leaving his mouth the instant he had it.

(He doesn't care, it's a legitimate question.) 

It has the effect of making Munson look downright chuffed. "I have actually, but only by my Uncle." 

"Why are you checking in?" Jeff interrupts, before seeming to realize he said it out loud. " Ah, I mean--"

"Oh he didn't tell you?" Steve says, as casually as he can muster. "Eddie claimed me and Chrissy at a party last weekend." 

See Munson? Two people could play the weird bit game. 

They've attracted more of Eddie's friends now, two more boys in leather jackets edging closer like frightened deer. 

(One of which is the aforementioned younger man Jeff threw bread at, and Steve vaguely thinks the guy's name starts with a g.) 

"Apparently we're his minions now." Steve tells Jeff in a rather put upon manner. 

"It was just you, the fair maiden chose otherwise." Eddie counters dismissively, voice dropping down low. 

Steve snorts. Hums a sarcastic; "Like you'd let us choose." 

Eddie finally abandons whatever voice that was supposed to be (a villain, Steve thinks, and wonders if it hurts Eddies throat to drop from a false high to a deep low that quickly.)  to say:

 "Mock me all you like, Harrington, but you can't deny the bit worked." 

Steve automatically went for another eye roll, and gets a flash of pain for it. "Who said I was mocking you, you dork? Just stating facts." 

Yet again, Eddie reacts weird to the comment. He looks almost bashful for a second, before he recovers, tugging his hair in front of his face as he plays with it.

The bell rings once in warning, and Steve makes a face towards the doors. 

"I gotta go, Mrs Clicks out to fail me. See you around, Eddie. Jeff." The way his eyes are bruised up he can't quite make out the face Jeff makes at that, but Steve's pretty sure the guys mouth was open. 

"She's a nasty one, my minion, best stay on your toes around her." Eddie calls, and Steve waves a hand in the air to show he heard. 

"What just happened?" Jeff asks, far too loudly for how close Steve still is. 

It makes him chuckle a bit, even as one of the other guys says something in a far quieter voice that has Munson squawking and flapping his arms like a bird. 

The winding little feelings in his chest squeeze his heart, and Steve shakes his head, refusing to be fond of Eddie Munson. 

xXx

College rejection letters come in, one after the another.

Steve could have made it into a few schools he's certain, except he hadn't really applied to any.

Not that any college other than Penn Hurst mattered. His dad wanted him to be a legacy, come hell or high water.

Steve's punishment was hand picked by his parents, and he gets the sailor outfit his new minimum wage job requires is supposed to be a part of it--that his dad made him apply because it was the most embarrassing thing he could think to subject Steve too-- but honestly? 

It's not that bad. 

Not even with Robin, the manager he met yesterday, and who positively, completely and totally, hates Steve’s guts.  

He figures he has time to win her over. 

All the time in the world, now that demons aren't trying to eat his, or any of the kid's, faces. He can focus on the small things. Build himself back up.

Figure out the person he wants to be, now that he's no longer King Steve. 

It’s the thought that kept him from attending any graduation parties. To go felt like backsliding into old habits. 

‘If the kids--if it comes back again--’ 

Getting drunk at night in a random house seemed almost irresponsible.

Particularly not with people Steve has history with, without anyone he really cares about being present. Certainly not Nance and Jonathan, who he wishes he didn’t know are at some end-of-year game night one of Nancy’s friends is hosting. 

(Steve can’t think about that for a number of reasons. 

When he does--because of course he does-- he makes sure to focus on the weirdness that is Jonathan Byers being someone he cares about, instead of the fact he can’t seem to kill his love for Nancy. 

Or that he's horrifically jealous of their relationship. 

That the best sleep he had ever had was between them, two nights after the lab, when they crammed themselves into Jonathan's bed because they all couldn't quite believe it was over.

That night had been so incredibly weird, but grouping together felt safer. Smarter.

Better.

Not in a way Steve wants to put into words. 

Not in a way he wants to confront at all.) 

His parents hadn’t been able to make it home to watch him walk at his graduation--his father landing a last minute meeting with some important person or other. 

Faked apologies were given, money transferred, and Steve, not wanting to sit in his too-huge house, had meandered to Family Video. 

Tried to forget his father’s cold voice in the background of his mother’s call, loudly announcing he’d have made it a priority to see Steve graduate-- if he’d gotten into Penn Hurst. 

Steve just shakes his head. Pushes those thoughts into the back of his head, into the same place all his other weird thoughts live.

The glare he gets from the tall, pimple-ridden guy working the rental counter was expected.

Chrissy Cunningham, was not. 

"I thought you’d be at one of the parties.” He tells her, when he turns down the romance aisle and finds her staring blankly at a shelf. 

She startles, before recognition flits over her face and a warm smile is directed his way. 

“I'm honestly not a fan of parties." She confides in him, hand clutching a tape in her hands."Not those kinds, anyway.” 

"More slumber parties, less keg stands your speed?" Steve guessed, blatantly turning his head sideways in order to read the title.

She awards him with a wider smile. "Exactly." 

"Chrissy Cunningham. Are you renting Jaws?" He teases, leaning in just a touch.

She flushes, but turns and squares up to him. Steve's delighted to see it. 

"Why yes I am. I'll do you one better and even admit it's one of my favorite movies." 

Steve grins at her, and sees the way she lights up on response, eyes bright. 

This is the Chrissy that Carver had tried to kill. The strength and pure fun that radiates off her enhances the beauty she has to something almost otherworldly. 

Steve has seen enough beauty in his life to recognize when it will stay. That Chrissy wil one day be 80 years old, with gray hair and knit sweaters, and she'll still be able to light up a room. 

"Like sharks killing people that much huh?” He teases. And it’s easy, slipping into this part of himself around her. The part he’s been trying to get back. 

The confidence that he walked with, before monsters crawled out of the ground, and Nancy put a hole in his heart.

"I'll let you in on a secret. ." Chrissy leans in, dropping her voice low enough that Steve has to lean in a bit too to hear. "My favorite character is the shark." 

Steve playfully gapes at her, and for the first  time in a long time, feels like things will be okay. 

He’ll be okay.

He won’t be King Steve. He’s not Nancy's Boyfriend Steve either--but someone else. Himself.

A Steve who exists outside of Hawkins High, outside his family name. 

He likes it.

"I told you that was his car. Steve!" A too familiar voice calls and Steve can't mask the despair that hits him as he turns to his (now least) favorite shithead, whose storming through Family Video’s doors. 

"Dustin." He identifies, with an edge to his voice he can only pray Chrissy doesn't pick up on. "Other brats. What are you doing?" 

Mike stands stubbornly at Dustin's right, Lucas nervous at his left. 

Will Byers is situated next to Mike but Steve's not as familiar with him, and has no idea how to interpret the kid. 

If he had to guess based on the face he’s being sent, Will’s more nervous then the rest--but equally determined. 

(This does not make Steve feel better. It in fact, somewhat convinces them they’ve run headfirst back into trouble.) 

"Well we were going to go to Lucas’s, but now, we're bumming a ride from you!" 

"I'm busy." He says flatly. 

"Ste~eeeve!" 

"I didn't know you had a brother." Chrissy says, hand covering her mouth. 

Looking back at her, Steve's pretty sure she's trying to physically hold back laughter. 

If one could shoot lasers with their eyes, Steve would be nailing Dustin for ruining--whatever it was that was happening here. 

"He's a rescue" Steve says flatly. "It’s not working out though. We're planning on returning him to the shelter.” 

"Wow Steve." Dustin returns, offended. "First of all, if anyone's rescuing anyone I rescued you, or did you suddenly forget that you show up to family dinner every Thursday at my house like a sad orpha--mmpphh!" 

‘Mmpphh’ because Steve had taken several long strides across the store to smack his hand over Dustin's mouth. 

"Sorry Chrissy, it would appear the asshole children I am paid to babysit escaped whoever is supposed to be watching them." He shakes Dustins head, in lue of strangling him. “Hit me up later we’ll discuss the shark’s best kills.” 

“Will do.” Chrissy says, as Steve begins the process of shoving his four smaller friends out the door. “Drive safe!” 

“No you don’t, and you’re gonna prove it by swinging through McDonalds for us.” Dustin sing-songs, swinging himself into the passenger side of the Beemer. 

“You assholes owe me, big time.” Steve hisses, as Lucas and Mike instantly begin making kissy faces the second they’re out into the parking lot. "I had plans tonight!"

“Do you have McDonalds money?” Steve asks, only to immediately wince at himself because fuck did he just sound like a soccer mom. 

“I have money I took out of my mom’s wallet.” Mike says as he settles into the car with his friends.

“Fine.” Steve sighs in defeat, starting the car. 

He determinedly does not ask if the idiots walked here, because there is a suspicious lack of bicycles, if only because he hit his mom quota for the day and Steve refuses to say anything else that might edge out his cool persona.

The one he swears he still has.

Supposedly. 

("Does my mom really pay you to watch me?" Dustin asks a while later, when the other brats are distracted. His voice is painfully honest, and softer than it normally is. 

"In food, yes." Steve says, because he’s not that much of an asshole--and maybe, because Dustin is truly his only friend right now.

Steve honestly looks forward to those Thursday dinners, helping Ma Henderson and having her fuss over him in a way his parents never had. 

In a way no one ever had. 

Dustin lands a solid kick to his ankle, making Steve curse. "That's not payment you ass!"

"Ow, God Dustin--" 

"Just admit you're my actual friend, you dick!" 

"Language! I swear your mom stole you from wolves, you animal--" Steve swatted at him. 

Maybe, possibly later, he will go on to admit that yes, Dustin is his friend. 

He will even agree to making up a stupid handshake for it. 

It involves lightsabers and gore at least, which Steve insists is very cool.)

[raayllum]

Thinking about how everything Viren did in trying to get better made Claudia worse.

He got brought back and wanted to "live life to the fullest" by spending every day with his daughter because his other previous pursuits could no longer compare, appreciating the remaining time he still had. Cue Aaravos going "Those few years with Leola were the most meaningful. Pondering the deepest mysteries of the universe couldn't hold a candle."

He woke up from his catatonic dark magic dream and refused to kill Sir Sparklepuff, walking away to go die peacefully... only to leave the perfect opportunity open for Claudia to successfully make the sacrifice and do the ritual, which brings out her fully corrupted face that until previously existed only in his nightmares.

He walked away from her on the beach in hopes by demonstrating the way, he could show her the right path, only to leave her ultimately lost until she found him again, delivering both her and the staff to Aaravos' prison and clutches.

He did the hearts of cinder spell with his own heart to spare Soren, only to leave the staff right there for Claudia to likewise collect.

He told her "You do anything for your children, never the other way around" in trying to get Claudia off the path he'd led her down, but left her hook line and sinker for Aaravos' whole schtick being "I do anything and everything for my daughter" because it's just "what's necessary, like my dad," isn't it?

like... good god man. 8/10 for effort though

[alt-vera]

— whiskey girl ⁀➷

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

joel miller gives his whiskey girl a gift.

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

✿ | joel miller | 1.06k | ❛ whiskey girl - toby keith ❜ | part one

warnings: pre outbreak!joel miller. drinking. allude to sex. age gap.

note: who knows when im gonna post again lol stay tuned for part two tho

❝ just ain’t enough good burn in tequila, she needs somethin’ with a little more edge and a little more pain ❞

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

JOEL MILLER LIKED HIS GIRLS LIKE HE LIKED HIS DRINKS.

　Strong, neat, and not cheap enough to make him gag.

　That’s why he liked you: a farmer’s granddaughter majoring in agriculture who worked hard for what she had and knew the value of respecting those around her without being walked over. A little ragged on the edges, but Joel liked ‘em rough.

　Same could be said for you. You liked Joel for the same reasons he fawned over you. He was charming, and assiduous, with enough edge worn into his features to draw you in at the drop of a dime.

　So, when you invited Joel to a local dive bar on an eventless friday night, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say no. It was rare for you both to be free; usually he was working late, or you had classes, or tests, or were helping on the farm.

　He saw your worn mustang parked by the entrance, and spotted you instantaneously as he walked inside. A welcoming aura surrounded you as you chatted with some old men, presumably other farmers who knew you from your last name and came in for a drink after a sweltering day of plowing fields. Your smile gleamed under the warm lights of the bar, and Joel couldn’t help it as his lips curled into a smile just from looking at you.

　“Haven’t been making you wait long, have i?” He drawled as he sauntered up to you, hand making it’s way into the back pocket of your jeans, pulling you closer to him.

　You directed your smile his way before bidding your goodbyes to the old folks. “‘Course not, Miller. You know that if you did, i would’ve given you hell as soon as you set foot in the door.”

　Joel chuckled, running his free hand through his messy hair. “Fair enough, darlin’. You need a drink?”

　“Please,” You replied, and Joel put two fingers in his mouth, throwing a loud whistle at the bartender.

　“Can i get a beer and a, uh,” He glanced over to you for a moment, deep eyes meeting your own, before a smirked danced across his features, “…a whiskey, neat, for my girl, please.”

　You couldn’t help as your cheeks warmed at his words. My girl. You rolled your eyes, turning your face away from him so that he couldn’t see the ruddy heat spreading across your face.

　The two of you didn’t have a label. You drank together, you kissed, you fucked. You’d make dinner for him and his daughter, and he’d take you for drives at sunset down empty country roads, radio blasting through the open heat waves as you yelled gleefully out the windows.

　Still, anyone who looked at you and Joel knew there was something there, even when his hand wasn’t in your back pocket or your fingers were grasping his forearm. You were his girl. And he was your guy. No denomination necessary.

　One whiskey turned to three before you were singing along to the jukebox in the corner of the bar, holding up invisible microphones to random folks who’d join you in your performance. Joel watched, amused, as you twirled around to the twang of the guitar blaring through the speakers. His smile grew as you crept closer to him, pretending to reel him in to dance with you like a fish caught on a worm.

　Little did you know that you already had him from the moment he met you. Hook, line, and sinker.

　His hand found yours as he gave in, not much of a dancer, but eager to spin you around. You let him lead you, swaying to the pace of the music, pulling you closer to him as the tempo continued on.

　He pulled you flush against him. Forgetting the music, forgetting the dancing, forgetting the watching eyes. He kissed you, a passionate catch of the lips that left you craving more, the dull glow of amber above you acting like a spotlight that shone on you and Joel solely.

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

　Joel couldn’t help himself as reached a hand up and drew a sloppy happy face on the fogged up windows of your mustang. Your head laid on his bare chest as you both fought to catch your breath, crickets chirping loudly in the farm field, audible even through the barrier of your car.

　You felt him bury his nose in your hair, breathing in the smell of you. Vanilla, and sweet musk, and whiskey. He felt you smile against his pec, eyes stealing a glance up to meet his.

　“I have a present for you,” He spoke suddenly, voice worn and husky.

　“Better than the way you just fucked me?” You joked with a light chuckle, feeling his arm move as he went to fish something out of his jeans that had fell on the floor of your backseat.

　He held the gift in his large hand before opening his palm to you to reveal a small wooden box. His fingers inched it open, and inside was a thin-banded ring with a dainty diamond in the middle.

　You turned dreadfully quiet as you stared at the band, and an anxious prickle crept over Joel’s skin.

　You raised yourself off his chest, turning to look at him. “Joel, if you’re proposing to me before even asking me to be your girlfriend, then i’m going to chuck this out into the field.”

　“What?” He laughed, inching so that he was sitting upright. “No, no, it’s a promise ring,” He said, plucking the jewellery out of the box and grabbing your hand, pushing it delicately onto your ring finger.

　“Ever since Sarah’s mom up and left, datin’ has been hard. I didn’t even wanna look at another woman—“ Joel’s deep eyes met yours, and you felt your heart swell, “—Until i met you.”

　“I don’t want t’distract you from your studies,” He continued, “But you’re my girl, and i want everyone to know it.”

　There it was again. My girl. Your pulse raced as you kissed him eagerly, full of adoration. Joel could still taste the smooth relish of whiskey on your breath.

　You smiled at him euphorically as you pulled away, words leaving your lips before you could even register the weight of them. “I love you, Joel.”

　Joel’s thumb stroked your cheek affectionately, returning your grin. “I love you too, my little whiskey girl.”

[sgiandubh]

This is a thank you, not an ask. I guess I would be classified as a lurker in the Tumbler world since I primarily only read what others write.  But I did make a comment to you once and you responded so you made me feel comfortable enough that I could send this to you.  Shippers have unknowingly been helping me stay sane these past few years.  My husband has Alzheimer’s with Aphasia and I have been his sole caretaker for a long time.  Having this responsibility is not for the faint of heart. One day in early 2019 I stumbled across Outlander and like a lot of others, was in, hook, line and sinker and Jamie & Claire and Sam & Cait became part of my daily life.  Last week I had to place my husband in a memory care facility.  It was an agonizing decision and I prayed for a sign that this was the right move.  As stupid as this may sound, I think my prayer was answered.  On the second day he made a friend.  His name is Jamie.  Only in the Outlander world would this have any meaning, but we've now got a sweet Jamie in our lives.  You may officially call me crazy.  Thank you to you and all the other shippers for all the smiles and happiness you've brought to me and many others. It kept me going.

Dear @jovialchaoslover,

By all means, do not thank me, even if I felt incredibly moved and honored by your submission, on behalf of the entire OL Shipper community. In fact, I should thank you, because for all those name calling and finger pointing Anons, you get to read something as genuine, moving and personal. These moments are rare and precious (and should remain so). They make you feel useful, in a very unexpected way.

You are one of those daily life unsung heroes and I want you to know that you are probably way stronger than you would ever think. I can only imagine the kind of experience you are now going through, even if I am (like many daughters, all around the world) only too aware of the cruelty with which old age sometimes disfigures beloved family members. I have only a remote idea of my own grandmother's quick descent into dementia and death, but I do have a very direct experience of the grueling toll it took on our family. Especially on my own mother, who let everything go and cared for her until the very last moment.

With the proper care solution in place, you will find yourself with a lot of time on your hands. A spare time you perhaps forgot existed. Please (I urge you) use it wisely and never forget this is all about you. You more than deserve it and the moment is now. I may know a thing or two about emptiness and void. They are incredibly enticing and treacherous. Please try and do something for you every single day. It does not matter if it is important or completely futile: it is about YOU and changing the angle will change everything. Remember the wonderful woman I am sure you are and try to reconnect with her. I can promise you she is not very far and I bet she misses you, too.

Last but not least, let me tell you that I will never call you crazy for having shared that Jamie story with us. I think it was very brave of you and I can confidently tell you it even has a name. What you experienced is called synchronicity and it is part of the tiny and personal magic of daily life. People as serious as Carl Gustav Jung dedicated their life to try and make some sense of this. And it all started with one of his patients (he was a shrink) describing a very vivid, recurrent dream of hers, that featured a scarab beetle. At the very same time, they both saw a scarab beetle (uncharacteristically) tapping on the window. The woman was not instantly cured (psychoanalysis does not exactly work like this), but it helped both of them overcome a very frustrating communication barrier.

That Jamie story is a real synchronicity, too, because it is meaningful for you and nobody else. It happened for a reason you are the only one to understand, in time. I could talk about it for hours and link it (as Jung did) with my beloved I Ching or with a couple of dead(ly) serious German philosophers, for some extra gravitas. But I am not going to over-complicate things. You got this. You are strong and brave and believe it or not, I am sure you are also loved by many.

I also think Caitriona Mary Balfe and Sam Roland Heughan should read your ask, finally understand their magic brought solace to many, many people around the world and get their damn act together for Season 8. But that is a different story altogether.

For the rest, if you want, we will be here for you. Me and probably other kind people on this side of the fence. Anytime you want, here or in DM. It may not be much, but it is something.

PS: that may or may not have brought a #silly tear, you know.

[possessionisamyth]

Look, listen to me, come closer. Nope, too close, take one step back. Okay, thank you. Now open your ears and hear what I'm saying.

Whole Cake but sanuso, BUT Sanji has fully transitioned via Ivankov and her poster has not been changed from the bad drawing yet. This means when they go to pick up Sanji, the disowned son, they are meeting Sanji the trans woman who cannot marry another woman ala Pudding. Not because of the gay thing, but because Charlotte Linlin expects babies from all her married kids.

Hold on, I'm not done. There's more, but it's below the cut cause I'm nice.

Okay so clown 1 and clown 2 arrive with their convincing arguments or alternative threats ready to go only to see Sanji and immediately call Judge so they can check. Is this the right person? Judge said a son didn't he?

Vito: "You have two daughters?"

Judge: "No. One daughter."

Vito: "There is a woman here calling herself Sanji."

Judge: "Sanji is my bastard son. He has the same eyebrows as the others, and he's blonde."

Both of the retrievers look at Sanji who fits the bill except for being a pissed off looking woman.

Vito: "Uh, you know what. We'll just bring 'Sanji' to you and you can make your best judgement."

Judge: "You'd better."

Sanji arrives. Reiju is doing her absolute best to remain appearing emotionless, but the giggles are being held at bay by a thread because this was the best possible way to get out of this marriage. Sanji the escape artist wins again in her eyes. The tri color brothers? They immediately start laying on the mockery and sexist comments of which Sanji is Not A Fan, but they threatened Zeff, and she needs to see how this is going to play out before doing anything. Judge? Absolutely pissed. He cannot give any of his other sons to Charlotte Linlin because they have actual value in his eyes. He was supposed to be giving the trash away, and the one thing Linlin needs out of any marriage deal is grandchildren. Grandchildren Sanji cannot provide with the one kid Linlin planned to give up ala Pudding.

Judge will either have to figure out a magical de-transition method that is instant (not possible in the time they have left). Give up one of his valuable sons (extremely not wanted). Or lie about Sanji's gender and go through the deal hoping they can get out unscathed until this is "fixed".

They opt to lie. Sanji who kept her hair short, only because longer hair was too much of a hassle in the kitchen, doesn't even have the option to be dysphoric due to the lengths the Vinsmokes are going through to pass her off as a man. Like. It's extremely pathetic. It's sad. It's one of Usopp's "I can't do X disease" level of awful and bad except Usopp's little lies were at least coming from someone cute.

They put a fake beard on her. Reiju is responsible for her make up. Clothes are tailored to hide the obvious curves. Sanji is making every step of this process as difficult as possible. There's nothing no one can do about her voice, though it's only slightly pitched up from before her transition. They tell her not to talk and slap the exploding handcuffs on her to make sure she doesn't. They say she's half mute or something, and Linlin says something like husbands are best seen and not heard. They buy it. They fucking buy it. Sanji isn't sure who's more stupid, the Vinsmokes for putting her through this fluke, or the Charlottes because they fall for it hook line and sinker. Her beard starts to fall off halfway through a meal and they rush her back to her room.

There are multiple mishaps where she's almost "caught", and her brothers are annoyed because they have to put in effort to cover for her unless they want to be auctioned off. Reiju is putting in a lot less effort to cover for her. But Sanji is tired. She is angry. She wants to go home. The fake beard is itchy. The clothes aren't her style. She misses her cute stilettos that Usopp lovingly sharpened the heels on. She is getting some entertainment from making trouble by nearly exposing her 'secret', but it does nothing to ease her worry of the ticking time clock to this farce of a wedding.

Pudding is nice at least. A little touchy, but nice. Sanji is so tempted to compliment the young girl, but the bracelets around her wrists are a very cold reminder not to.

Usually I have more to write where I go over the whole arc with this kind of headcanon, but I don't. Have some snippet ideas.

Usopp yelling out, "What did they do to my babygirl!" in earshot and Sanji giving him the wettest most pathetic sad cat eyes because she loves when Usopp calls her that and she wants TO LEAVE.

Sanji revealing her gender at the altar, and Pudding having a lesbian awakening.

Sanji actually taunting her brothers with a reversal of the sexist commentary they were throwing at her and then saving them.

Hearing multiple Charlotte kids question why Judge lied about having another son, and that they would've accepted a daughter to marry into the family. Some even say a daughter offering might've even prevented the whole assassination attempt thing.

Usopp gently putting Sanji's spiky stilettos on her feet like Cinderella and her prince, and she gets a horrible nosebleed. This happens moments before she's being dragged off to remake the wedding cake.

Pudding is still having the split genuine thirst and fake angry reactions to Sanji where she's just like (thumbs up emoji) in response.

Multiple cut scene styled flashbacks where random Charlotte kids realize Sanji was very obviously a woman, and they'd been too stupid in the moment to pay real attention to her slip ups.

Injured Sanji giving the double middle finger to the Vinsmokes as they part ways.

Luffy seriously asking Sanji why they didn't put her in a wedding dress. Were they too stupid to see she's a girl? He could tell it was really obvious so why didn't they?

Sanji in an irritated voice explaining to Luffy what they put her through, and then placing her hands on her blushing cheeks as she explains she only wants to wear a wedding dress once. She pointedly looks at Usopp and flutters her lashes. Usopp gets all bashful and smiley and starts a whole spiel about how if they got married it'd be way grander than what the Charlottes could come up with. Sanji is swooning. Nami is moments from throwing them both overboard for being way too mushy.

You got that right? Okay, good. Have a nice evening!

[the-bad-batch-baroness]

Where's Mommy?

Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Part 4

Summary: Wolffe's wife suddenly dies, leaving him a single father in the middle of a war.

Pairing: Wolffe x Lilith Sestri (OFC)

Characters: Wolffe, Sinker, Comet, Boost

Tags & Warnings: heavy angst, mention of death, off-screen death, spousal death, grief, hurt/comfort, clone cuddle pile

Word Count: 1.4k

Author's Notes: This part is 100% pure Wolffe angst. That's it. That's the whole thing. Just Wolffe being a sad man. You have been warned. Next part will have more Cara and Comet and clones attempting to make breakfast! As always, please enjoy 💚

Part 1 || Prev | Next

Series Masterlist

"The little one is asleep," Comet said as he reentered the living room.

"Good," Wolffe said. His head was leaned back against the couch, his eyes closed, and his arms crossed. "She needs it."

"So do you," Sinker added with a pointed look towards Wolffe.

Wolffe groaned. "I need to pack."

"We can help with that," Boost offered.

"No," Wolffe said. He leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. "I can do it."

"Do you want us to leave?" Comet asked.

Wolffe pushed himself off the couch and stared blankly towards his bedroom. "No…" he murmured with a shake of his head. "Stay. Just for a little while longer."

"Whatever you need, Commander," Sinker said.

Wolffe walked towards his bedroom with heavy footsteps. The weight of what he needed to do, picking and choosing pieces of his wife, what to keep and what to let go of, surrounded him like a thick cloud. Its presence threatened to suffocate him. The room was dark, empty, and lifeless, feeling claustrophobic and cold without the warmth of his wife. Everything was how it should be. The bed was immaculate, the floor was clean, the clothes were put away, but in his heart he only felt chaos.

He sat down on his side of the bed, the mattress sinking in under his weight, and looked over at the holo-photo album perched on the bedside table. It slowly rotated through images of their life together. A nervous first date, a botched marriage proposal, a beautiful unofficial wedding, an unexpected baby bump, the birth he missed, a first birthday, an anniversary alone, and so many more memories. He missed a lot of them because of the War, but nonetheless, each memory was priceless and precious to him.

He picked up the album and ran his fingers across the image of his wife smiling next to his daughter on her third birthday; one they celebrated without him. He smiled at the memory. Cara had cake all over her face. Then the image switched, and Wolffe's breath hitched. For a moment, he thought he lost her again, but it was just an image of him holding Cara, one that his wife took, and he realized that was how all of their pictures would look going forward. She'd never be in one ever again.

Wolffe placed the album down, flopped back onto the bed, and rested his arm over his eyes. He wanted to feel something other than sadness, anything, but he couldn't find any other emotion. His usual stoic, no-nonsense demeanor had left him too. He gripped the blanket with his other hand, but he couldn't feel its softness. He was numb. He needed to pack, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed. How easy would it have been to just slip away and never feel anything ever again? Hadn't he lost enough already?

Was there an allotment in life of pain and suffering, and he accidently received a double portion? Was it not enough to lose his battalion, his marshal rank, and his eye? Did he have to lose his wife too? What else could this life possibly take from him? His daughter? He'd rather die. He'd rather be blown up, crushed, sliced in half, suffocated, burned, or stabbed to death than lose one more thing he held precious. The universe could take him, but it couldn't take his daughter.

Wolffe groaned and rolled onto his side. He stared at his wife's side of the bed and slowly smoothed his hand over the empty surface. He could almost feel her lying there if he closed his eyes, and he wondered if he'd forget someday. Would he forget what she felt like? Her smell? Her voice? Her infectious laugh? His name on her lips? Would he forget… her? Maker, he prayed he would never forget. He couldn't. He wouldn't. She was his beloved, and he was hers. Death couldn't keep him from loving her.

Wolffe shimmied over to his wife's side of the bed and buried his face into her pillow, inhaling her scent deeply and committing it to memory. He made a quick mental list of everything he wanted to pack and take with him. Her pillow, her favorite top, her favorite perfume, her favorite soap, her favorite holo-book. He wished he could pack it all up in a small box and carry it with him everywhere he went, but he couldn't. He'd just have to take those little pieces of his wife and try not to forget.

Although, there was a part of him that still thought she'd come home. That she was just out having fun with her friends and would be back late. That she'd come to bed and curl up next to him like she always did when he was home. Then there was the part of him that replayed her dying gasps of breath. Reminding him that her body went limp in his arms and she was never coming back. A ruthless and cruel tug of war in his mind. A part clinging to a false hope and a part crushing him under the weight of despair.

The despair won the war and Wolffe choked out a sob. He let his emotions roar to the surface, breaking the dam of his engineered resilience, and he cried. It was too much. He wasn't made to love and he wasn't made to lose love. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to die first. It was unfair. It was inhumane. It was cruel. He didn't care what force power or force deity his general believed in. No moral platitude could justify the death of innocence, let alone his own wife.

"Commander?" Sinker whispered from where he peeked in at the bedroom doorway.

Wolffe didn't move or stifle his mournful cries. He didn't care if his brothers saw him like this. He thought he could do it. He thought he could sneak away, suffer in silence, and ride out the grief alone, but the weight was too heavy. He was buckling beneath the pressure and knew he wouldn't make it if he only relied on himself. To be strong in front of his daughter was one thing, but his Pack brothers? They were strong and steady. He knew he could break in front of them and be safe.

With no confirmation or denial otherwise, Sinker stepped into the room and sat down next to where Wolffe was lying on the bed. He hesitated, but placed a firm hand on Wolffe's shoulder.

"Wolffe," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Wolffe said nothing, but slowly picked himself up and leaned heavily against Sinker as he wiped his eyes.

"The boys and I were thinking," Sinker began. "Maybe we could stay the night? To keep you company?"

Wolffe looked up at Sinker through blurry vision. He wished the tears would stop flowing, but they didn't. Every time he remembered his wife wasn't coming home, new tears formed where the previous fell. It was a continuous cycle that he never experienced before and he hated experiencing now. He had slept alone countless times on missions, but he never slept alone in this bed, without her. She was always there. It felt wrong to sleep in it without her. He didn't want to sleep in it alone.

"I…" Wolffe began with a hoarse voice. "I'd like that."

Sinker pulled Wolffe's forehead against his own and closed his eyes. "We've got you, vod."

Wolffe melted into the simple gesture, breath still shaking from his sobs. "Thank you."

Sinker gave Wolffe's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then got up from the bed to go grab the others from the living room. Wolffe sat still at the edge of the bed, but slowly let himself drift back down to rest his head against the pillow. His Pack brothers quietly entered the bedroom and each found a spot on the bed to lie down, being careful not to disturb him. It wasn't a very large bed so a little overlap was needed, and there were some tangled limbs, but everyone eventually settled in.

It had been a while since the Pack piled in such a way to sleep. The last time Wolffe piled was probably before the Malevolence. Same for Sinker and Boost, and most likely never for Comet since he was part of the newly formed battalion. Wolffe refused piles after the Malevolence because he was afraid of getting attached to his men again, but in the end, it didn't matter. He didn't lose any of his men. He lost his wife. Maybe Jedi were right and attachments were a waste.

Part 1 || Prev | Next

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List: @nahoney22 @commander-sunshine @sunshinesdaydream @padawancat97 @verndusk @sun-roach @coraex @lickylickylicky @homemade-clones @523rdrebel @clonemedickix @starrylothcat @moonwrecked @ladyzirkonia @stunkbiggu @cdblake1565 @ladytano420 @moonlightwarriorqueen @anxiouspineapple99 @clonethirstingisreal @dreamie411 @trixie2023 @cw80831 @ca77m3anna @reader6898 @kimiheartblade @dukeoftheblackstar @totally-not-your-babe @stinkyluna @rinwritesfics @t3mpest98 @asyas-daydreaming

Join my taglist HERE

Tip me a tea on Ko-fi HERE

[fotibrit]

what's your opinion on steves 'ending' in endgame? i generally feel like it sort of goes against a character arc of his, and a bit conflicting how much he did to not lose bucky and then sorta ditched it all the second he could actually exist with him once more, kinda also feels like a plot hole in some scenarios for his character and the future but i'm probably talking with some form of bias, I'm not too sure!! so I wanted to know another persons perspective on it!!

opinion: Was Bad

credentials: My very first introduction to Marvel was my best friend (hardcore Steve Rogers fan, called me “her Bucky”, was as insane abt Steve as i currently am abt tony) bringing me to see Endgame, and then her talking MAD SHIT about the ending for the next few months. I have heard every criticism. I learned that the ending was character assassination before i even know what character was being assassinated.

So. i don’t think it’s good. Getting into the Meta of the MCU for a sec, the MCY movies are partially paid for by the USA military etc etc so they reflect some political targets of the country. You gotta watch for propoganda in the movies. and in endgame, it was the happy little family. There was the family together in Wakanda, Tony being all domestic with his wife and daughter, Clint finally got to be back with his family. The snap brought back other family members, including don’t remember enough but generally… they were pushing the happy family thing. The US birth rate is down, and i imagine that part of the funding included some sort of push for more family imagery, in order to influence people to settle down together.

And then there’s Steve. Who has always had a found family, he’s out of time, away from his legal family. He doesn’t have any way to be included in this push for a family. My guess for what happened in the writers room is that they assumed everyone would fall for it hook line and sinker. that people would start believing, somehow, that birth family and nuclear family structures are most important.

If you look at it from the framework of their imagined audience, who thinks a nucular familg reunited is the happiest structure of all, Steve got a happy ending! He got to be with a hetero romantic partner!

Where they went wrong, is that nobody fuckin fell for it. Because it wasn’t convincing in the slightest. They spent hours after hours showing how desperately Steve cares for Bucky, and then they betray Steve’s primary motivation (keeping friends safe) in order to fit into their Nuclear Family Initiative.

they accidentally created a character who was the perfect encapsulation of an audience member who would NOT care most about a nuclear family unit. They made a character who cares most about a non-romantic partner. And then, they had to try to convince us that it was the same guy, while actively betraying his core values.

Bad ending. Wrong ending. Betrayed the audience and the character.

And it’s due to propoganda.

(side note: as far as i can tell, they’ve moved from “family unit” to “parenting is important”. Most blatant example i saw of this was in the last GotG, but it’s all over. they’re making everyone parents.)

[sailoryooons]

Obsidian | One | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Yoongi x f. reader

☾ Summary: You remember everything. The first time you radiated at garnet, feeling the power of the jewel rushing through you. Remember the energy pulsing at your command. And you certainly remember the face of the man who ruined your life. Then there’s Min Yoongi, the Chaotic who is the key to your revenge.

☾ Word Count: 10,012

☾ Genre: Urban fantasy, criminal/syndicate, strangers to lovers, angst, eventual smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: Graphic depiction of death and body dismemberment, a lot of blood, Yoongi is brutally wounded/gutted, near-death experience, traumatic loss of parents, mention of suicide (not actual, but metaphorical), this is pretty blood and gory but not gratuitous? Death of a koi fish rip Agust the I. 

☾ Published: April 22, 2023

☾ A/N: Don’t ask me to explain myself. I have no idea what I’m doing and my Aries moon is in full control of me and working me like a robot. This is a series or something I don’t know. I have no plans and no thoughts, just brain rot. Inspired by Jade City by Fonda Lee, the movie Colombiana, the movie Scarface and by my fuck it we ball attitude about writing what I want when I think of it. Also please note that the order of first and last names will be done in Western fashion in this, as this story does not exist anywhere real-world-adjacent and thus, will be first name > last name.❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Ask | Series Playlist | Series Masterlist | Tag Lists | Next Chapter 

An emerald Radiant walks into the bar and makes a mess. It sounds like a punchline, but you never hear the end of the joke. Only the hook and the line. No sinker. 

Before he arrives and messes everything up is important, though. 

-

Market Town is a mess. Each side of the road has storefronts with open doors, neon and holographic signage blinking on and off with the shitty pulse from the electricity grid. In front of them on the side walks and spilling into the street are the stall vendors, ever-changing and ever-moving sales carts, tables, boxes and people hawking their wares, fruits and trinkets at the hundreds of people who writhe through the market. 

It smells terrible. You keep to yourself, all the stink of bodies and rotting fruit and the sizzling fat of meat making your head dizzy no matter which way you navigate. Market Town stretches an entire district, street after street of stores and people and things and it feels like it never ends, the stench of humanity clinging to you like a second skin.

Water crashes down on a man selling lab-grade jewels to a wary-looking mother and daughter. They flinch away from the seller as he sputters and screams, soaked in sweat and whatever liquid has been tossed out an apartment window from above. He cranes his neck up to locate whoever tossed the water - or more likely, piss - out of the window, but he has hundreds of options to choose from from the apartment building that towers behind him. You grimace and step further into the middle of the street. Most of the apartments in Market Town have years worth of failing plumbing, and you have no desire to be showered with piss and shit. 

It’s too early in the evening for the lights of the neon advertisements glittering in the air above your head to cast a blinding light on your eyes. Their glow is not yet painted on the surge of people coming and going, but you know by sundown Market Town will be a watercolor of holographic and neon advertisements courtesy of Roanoke Insurance, Jend Cosmetics, and Jura Jura Coffee: Best Brew In Diade. 

At least Market Town has sensible advertisements. It isn’t the vibrant horror of naked figures bent over, or the bloody holograph of a man having his brains blown out. Crimson District has no shortage of unique and salacious advertising and the money its businesses generate make the lights and the glow much harder to ignore, even in the daylight. It’s part of why you prefer to scrounge around Market Town like a mangrove rat. 

Well, and it’s what you can afford. 

Namjoon’s work stall floats around Market Town. Usually, you can find him tucked between Margot’s fruit stand and Len’s divination table. Namjoon likes to nibble on Margot’s sweet strawberries in exchange for fixing the till on Margot’s stand, and Len is an okay stall neighbor when he isn’t so drunk that he’s trying to convince you that the end is near and the world will be swallowed in garnet and obsidian. 

That sounds lovely, you always tell him.

Prepare for the end, Len always answers. 

The sweet smell of tangerines reaches you through the sizzling smell of frying meat a few stalls over. It’s better than the rank stink  of flowers wafting from a stall a few carts over, your head dizzy with the fragrance as you approach Namjoon, Margot and Len.

Margot’s fruit always smells better than any other food set out across tables and bins on the street. You’re pretty sure it has to do with the pretty, green citrine jewel that he keeps tucked away and out of sight and away from any wandering eyes. 

You can’t blame him. Even though citrine isn’t high on the Jewel Caste, Market Town is primarily made up of Nulls. They certainly can’t radiate with jewels, but they sell them at a high price to those desperate enough to feel the power of a Radiant. Some even promise to sell jewels that make Radiants Caste Drop to a new, darker and more powerful color. 

Only an untrained Radiant would think a Caste Drop is possible through a rock. It’s stupid, really. Anyone who wears or buys jewels openly in Market Town is asking to be robbed and gutted. You’ve even seen as light as a diamond caste get murdered here. 

A kindly young man stands in front of Namjoon’s stand. It’s really just a wooden table with a bunch of trinkets, clocks with too many dials, little holographic action figures jumping into different poses, and other wares that run on technology or small engineering. Namjoon prides himself on being the best tinkerer, though you’re willing to bet he’s a lot smarter than that. 

Namjoon himself isn’t much older than the man at his table, gesturing to a watch as Namjoon leans over it. Namjoon’s brown hair has grown long, shoved back by a black, cotton strip he has tied around his head to keep it out of the way. He’s dressed in a dirty shirt and canvas overalls, a little bit of grease on his arms. His glasses slide down his nose, lenses fogged with the humidity that collects in Market Town and makes it rot. 

A fly buzzes toward you from Margot’s stand. He has his back turned to you, placing little white pricing stickers on his green melons. He's a little portly and very short - especially when Namjoon stands and shakes his customer’s hand. Namjoon is taller than most people, and much broader, his shoulders wide and arms thick, suggesting that he did something else before he became a tinkerer in Market Town. 

You don’t know what, though. You can sense the peridot he has hidden in the soles of his boots and the fingertips of his work gloves, giving him power to radiate as he works on his little devices and mending broken objects for people. But you’ve never asked. 

Asking questions is the first step to murder in these parts. 

When his customer leaves, Namjoon turns to you and blinks his brown eyes at you owlishly, magnetized by his prescription lenses. He’s handsome - a little too handsome by Market Town standards - and he smiles at you, a dimple popping up in his cheek. 

“I finally fixed this device for you,” Namjoon says by way of greeting. He digs around in his overall pockets and produces a tiny, silver device that looks like a bullet. “The little battery inside was fried. I put in a new one and replaced the copper plating on the starter. Your wires were totally corroded and-”

“How much?” you ask, a little exasperated. Namjoon will go on forever if you let him, and you need to get to Montana. “I only asked for the battery to be looked at, Joon.” 

“No cost. It was a fun little device to look at. Kind of dangerous, though, no?”

“You can’t not charge me. I told you to stop giving people their shit for free.”

His cheeks turn cherry as he scratches the back of his neck. “Fine, what about five nil?” You toss the coins on the table and he passes you the device. “It’s a mini shatterwave, right? The high-pitched frequency scatters the frequency of Radiants?” 

You give him an annoyed look. “Yes.” 

“Who made it? It’s a fascinating device.” 

Instead of answering Namjoon’s question, you pocket the little bullet  and toss another five nil on the table. “For silence,” you tell him firmly. 

He wants to ask another question. You can see it in his face. Namjoon is always asking you questions about the things you bring to him and ask him for. It isn’t his job to ask questions, especially as freely as he asks them. But Namjoon operates like someone who has no idea that he’s tucked away in the most dangerous market in the Crown Cities. 

Nothing Namjoon does is that of someone low born. He’s too polite, gives out too many handouts, and lets his curiosity get the best of him. Lets his clients become friends. You’re fond of him as much as someone of your position is allowed to be - maybe even a little more - but Namjoon is a danger to himself, no matter how often you keep steering him back in the right direction. 

“You!” Len leans over Namjoon’s table, his glassy green eyes wide, pupils dilated. His hair is white as salt and sticks up in multiple directions, looking as though he may have been electrocuted and never recovered. He points one knobby finger at you. “The world will end in garnet and obsidian.” 

“That sounds lovely, Len.” 

You predict the next words. Have heard him say it dozens of times. “Obsidian.” 

Len surprises you. That has yet to be a response in your little game of prophecy, and you open your mouth to indulge and ask him what he means when something tingles at the back of your neck. 

You pause and glance to the side where Margot is dealing with a customer arguing about the price of squash. A soft breeze rustles the canvas topper to Margot’s stand, carrying the scent of tangerine with it. Something is buzzing at the back of your neck, and your gaze slowly drifts from Margot to a man passing by the cart. 

This is someone who blends in. His clothes are plain: his pants are ripped at the knees and scuffed at the bottom, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest in places where he’s sweating through. He has a floral shirt pulled over, open and fluttering in the balmy breezy of the market.

Nothing about him is remarkable, except that he’s beautiful. Perhaps not on the first glance, but when you blink and focus, it feels like you’re seeing him for the first time. You have no idea how upon first glance you thought he could ever blend in.

He has a round face, glowing and pale like the moon. Inky hair that is a little bit dirty, a few wavy pieces falling over cat-sharp eyes. He smirks as he walks, and though he isn’t looking at you, he seems smug about something. You’re not sure what, but as he passes you, you feel that tingle again. 

Your eyes dart to all of the places you look for jewels first. Hands, ears, neck, and wrists. Nothing, there’s no jewel on him. You can’t sense a frequency about him that makes sense - he doesn’t fit anywhere on the caste that makes sense to you, but it’s definitely a Radiant-adjacent sensation. He’s on the caste, but you don’t know where.

Most Radiants feel like a dull buzz. When they have jewels, it’s more like an itch that you want to scratch. There is always an attraction for a Radiant to use jewels, even if they don’t belong to them. This feeling isn’t that, it’s more invasive and sharp, not like anything you’ve felt from diamond caste to onyx caste.

When he gets a few yards away, the feeling begins to fade. You start to turn away but he tosses something up and the air and catches it. You narrow your eyes and he does it again, realizing he’s tossing a tangerine up and down. 

A tangerine that he stole. 

“Hey!” you bark at him, making several people turn in your direction, including Namjoon and Margot. The man doesn’t pause, tossing his tangerine in the air again. “Hey motherfucker! You have to pay for that tangerine!”

That catches his attention. He turns and looks at you over his shoulder, eyes round and mouth parted in surprise. A few people turn to look at where you’re shouting, but you mostly go ignored. Thieves are common here and most people don’t bother to yell at them anymore. 

The man pauses for a moment. His gaze darts between you, Margot who is coming around his cart behind you with a knife, and the ripe little tangerine in his hand. He looks at you again, dark eyes glittering. For a second, the two of you are connected, strung together by an unlikely moment between strangers. Then he does the damndest thing: he grins. 

And then he’s running down the street, floral shirt snapping in the wind as he dashes headfirst into the crowd. 

Like the idiot you are, you take off after him. Suddenly, you are the number one security measure of Margot’s fruit stand, a man who has never given you a fucking discount in your life. You have no idea why you’re running after this tangerine thief, but you feel energy surge through you as you do, dodging people and bodies and things as you tear after him. 

The tangerine thief is quick on his feet but you’re fast too, the emerald jewel hidden in your boot sending energy through you. You only radiate a little - not enough to draw too much attention, but enough to not lose sight of his red shirt flapping as he takes a corner and leaps over a stall. 

He’s a Radiant, you realize. You suspected when you felt him walk behind you, but the ease at which he vaults a market stall much taller than him gives it away. He isn’t worried about hiding his status from you, which can mean a couple of things. 

You don’t consider any of them, going around the stall instead of over. The emerald in your shoe is more than enough to send you several meters in the air, but you like to play your cards close. Don’t like to flash power unless you absolutely have to.

In a market full of Nulls, you prefer to blend in. Unjeweled is safer, especially in Market Town full of thieves and cut throats for naive or unsuspecting Radiants.

Just as you catch sight of your thief again, there’s a loud snap in the market. You look up, seeing a two story stall made from dry-rotted driftwood splinter. There’s a single second where you’re watching the top of the stall holding fresh rain water and it’s crashing down onto the market floor. 

Screams ring out as alarmed market goers are startled by the sudden deluge. You just barely throw up a shield of concentrated energy. Water splits once it hits you, a river breaking around a boulder. Chaos ensues, the stall owner screaming her head off and wailing about the precious rainwater she collected to bless with her divine spiritual energy and sell, while shoppers and other stall owners alike are furious about their now soaking persons and wares. 

Dropping your shield, you shoulder through the crowd. Now the smell of garbage is wet and pungent, clinging to bodies as you shove through the mess, looking for any sign of the pretty boy and his stolen tangerine. 

It’s a mass of colors and people, lanes between stalls and the crowd opening and closing. The movement of Market Town flexes like a living thing, shifting and writhing, a hungry serpent sliding through the streets. 

“Fuck,” you growl. It was a well placed distraction and perfect aim, using his power to snap the beam of the stand. 

With a sigh, you look down at your watch and curse. You’re going to be late to work. Again. All because you chased down a thief for a fruit salesman that doesn’t even like you.  

But that tingle. That sense of awareness that pricked the back of your neck, sharp and lethal. You think about it as you speed walk to the outskirts of Market Town where the edge of the Night Sphinx territory borders the loosely carved strip of streets that belong to the Green Dragons.

The lane of pockmarked pavement between the left and right sides of the street is the only place in Diade where two families of the Armory share such close property. Though the Salib and Park families are friendly enough, it still doesn’t do well to mix too much among Armory families outside of official business.

As soon as you hit the corner, you keep your eye on the other side of the street. It’s lined with clubs and bars and gambling dens that belong to the Night Sphinx organization. A few patrons loiter on the street, but it’s mostly members with sphinx tattoos, brooches or emblems stitched to their clothing to state their association.

The sun is sinking toward its final goodbye, rays of gold light cut in half by the towering buildings of Civ just a few miles away. It’s a beautiful sight, a shot straight down to the lower elevation of the giant buildings turned burnish gold by the sunset. 

Even from a distance, the commercial district of the city is imposing, its steel teeth biting upward at a colored sky. You wonder what it must be like to live in that world. To work or live in one of the Civ towers. You imagine you’d have your own little office with a desk and a private window to look out at the world. So high up near the clouds, a god of civilization. 

A group of Green Dragons pour out of the door of Montana and onto the sidewalk. It draws your attention away from the shining, ever-golden Civ to the flickering neon sign above a banged-up metal door. It looks like the lock is busted again and you make a note to tell Burro. Not that he’ll get it fixed. It’s not worth the nil to fix anything in Montana, including the mangrove rat infestation brought in by one of the liquor shipments from Blows.

Inside the bar is no better. Sticky floors, wobbling tables with chipped wood and scratched lacquer coating, a single bar with broken stools pulled up to the edge. There are a few holoscreens flickering above the colorful bottles that line the bar, sometimes interrupted by Jungkook’s tattooed hand reaching for bottles.  

Montana is rarely busy. It’s a new acquisition fronted by the Green Dragons, though the building isn’t new and neither is the bar. It had been closed for almost fifteen years, a rotted hole of a used-to-be-bar until Jimin opened it up again. He doesn’t intend for it to be a popular place to drink as much as he needs it for Green Dragons operations, but he fixed it up a bit. 

As you round the bar to throw your shit in the office, a mangrove rat scurries by your feet, making you screech and jump. Jungkook lifts his head, round eyes sweeping back and forth for danger, hands cocked and fists half-clenched. He catches sight of the rat scurrying into one of the holes in the side of the wall and scowls before nodding in greeting.

So maybe Jimin hadn’t fixed up the bar that much. 

If Jungkook is irritated by your tardiness, he doesn’t say anything. You’re just as pleased as you are displeased to discover that Burro isn’t in the bar at all. You suspect he’s down the block wasted in the Green Garter. Instead of asking, you immediately get to helping Jungkook maintain the system behind the bar, which is mostly cleaning vigorously at all times to fight the grime that seems to inch up on the place every hour. 

Working with Jungkook is your favorite. He’s a quiet kid with a guarded expression and soft eyes. You don’t ask him much about how he got here or why. Jimin seems to show him the same reverence as when he first found you, so it’s safe to assume that Jungkook is a stray like you. 

Even without jewels, Jungkook is tall and broad, his arms thick and strong enough to lift kegs one-armed over his shoulder. You’ve seen him go from quiet and unassuming behind the bar to throwing a jeweled Radiant across the street. You know he has your back. Despite the fact that his eyes sometimes drift to where your emerald is hidden. It’s the only evidence that you have that he’s frequency sensitive, like you.

Jungkook’s energy vibrates somewhere on the light colors. Maybe jade or rose, it’s hard to place him because he wears no jewels. 

The sound of some sporting event on the holoscreen buzzes behind you. The murmur of voices is soothing as you work, scrubbing a stain on the bartop you don’t remember being there yesterday. A quick sweep tells you that it’s the usual crowd this evening: Daro who is a smoky jewel sitting at a booth with Rollins and Gia, both emeralds; twins Rin and Maki sitting at the bar with their sharp, matching gazes vibrating at amethyst, and Bolero who doesn’t run with the Green Dragons but has become a regular, the only Null in the building. 

Bolero signals for another drink, grey eyes following you. He’s dancer-thin and his face is sharp like a hawk, grey eyes even sharper. He’s always in a long, red trench coat no matter how boiling hot it is. You think you’re going to see him keel over and have a heatstroke one day, but he never does. Just strolls in, pushing his long, dark hair out of his face before sitting down wordlessly at the bar. 

You pour him a whiskey neat and slide it over to him. He hums a thank you and turns his attention back to the screen flickering behind you. Bolero never talks, but you don’t mind him. The Radiants ignore him, though they hadn’t at first. You still see Rollins sporting a ropey scar on his hand from learning how much bullying Bolero would take.

Apparently, it was very little. 

Most places would have had the Null killed and dragged out for the city sanitation to collect in their once-a-week pickups. To Radiants, anyone who doesn’t have power, who can’t radiate on the same frequency as a jewel, is beneath them. Powerless. Ant, meet boot. 

Radiants, you’ve learned, are certainly powerful but not quite intelligent. 

“Where’s the asshole?” you ask Jungkook as you close the dishwasher with your hip. Three hours in and no Burro in sight. Not that you’re complaining, but as the manager, he’s usually expected to be around in the event that someone important drops by for business. 

Jungkook shrugs, dubious. “How should I know?”

“He can’t keep leaving you alone.”

“I’m not a kid.” You give him a look and his cheeks go pink. “I’m twenty-two, you know?”

“A child. A mere infant. Baby.”

“Ugh.” 

“Anway,” you clarify, throwing a rag over your shoulder. “It’s not right. If someone comes in here for Green Dragons shit and Burro isn’t around, you’re gonna be fucked.” 

“I can service them just fine.” 

“Yeah? Where’s the stash?” 

Jungkook smirks and leans against the bar. He’s dressed in dirty pants and a t-shirt he’s patched holes on several times already. His arms flex as he crosses them, cocking his head to the side. His hair is so much longer than it used to be - now it’s wavy and falling into his eyes, sticking to the sweaty skin of his forehead. You want to offer him a haircut, but you don’t want to baby him further. 

“It’s in the grate underneath the desk in Burro’s office.” 

“Great, and then they’ll flay you alive for not answering in their weird little code phrase.” Jungkook’s smirk falls off his face and you shake your head. “Exactly. Just because you know things doesn’t mean you know all of them, Jungkook.”

“Whatever.” 

Jungkook pushes off of the counter and distracts himself by sullenly adjusting the bottles on the bar. You snort and turn back to trying to pry the sparking plug of the freezer out from the outlet to move power sources. Eventually, you feel Jungkook’s presence at your side, making you crane your neck up to look at him.

“So what is the code phrase?” he asks, pout prominent. You roll your eyes and straighten just as the door opens to the bar. 

The door swings open with such force that it smacks the wall behind it, doorknob cracking. It draws the attention of the bar, everyone turning in their seats to see the man standing at the entrance. He’s mid-size with wild, blue hair and there’s a messy tattoo of a black cat on his arm. Your eyes narrow and the bar stills at the violent entrance of a Night Sphinx member in front of you, panting and staring directly at Bolero, the only person not looking at the door. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, looking back and forth between them.

The Night Sphinx is angry and his energy snaps around him, a crackle in the air. You don’t have to sense the emeralds on him to know where he’s at on the Jewel Caste. He has a single ring on his finger and two modest earrings, not polished jewels but still emeralds all the same. 

For a second, the man doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Bolero in a red rage, face purpling with the way he’s panting, fists clenched at his sides. You think he might just pass out, but then he’s pointing a finger at the Null sitting at your bar, sipping whiskey.

“You motherfucker!” His voice is garbled and slurred with liquor. “You fucked my wife!”

“Oh for jewels sake,” Maki grunts, turning away and sharing a roll of her eyes with her twin. “Take him outside and kick his ass then. He’s a Null.” 

If being sold out by Maki bothers Bolero, he doesn’t show it. He simply sits there in his heavy trench coat, eyes fixed on the game on the holoscreen. This seems to enrage the man at the door even further. He ignores Maki’s advice and storms into the bar, gathering energy as he goes. The chairs and tables he walks by rattle and slide away from him, the pulse of energy flowing through him as he radiates disturbing them. 

No one in the bar moves. Jungkook is transfixed and confused, eyes wide. The Green Dragons in the bar watch with mild interest. Bolero isn’t one of them, and the bar isn’t important enough to pick a fight with one of Salib's men over a Null.

But you’re not looking forward to the cleanup, and you don’t want to explain to Jimin how you did nothing while some Night Sphinx came in and fucked up a patron. 

As your hand slides to the small, bullet-shaped device Namjoon fixed for you, Bolero moves. It’s almost too fast to follow the fluid way he stands and spins from the chair. His foot slips under the stool, using the toe of his boot to hook it behind the stool’s leg and he kicks. 

The stool flies at the Radiant. He’s a little drunk and slow, but he’s still a Radiant and he reacts with enough clarity to pulse with the jewels on his hand and earrings once, sending a shield of energy around him. The stool shatters against the invisible wall, leaving the intruder unharmed. 

Bolero is still fast for a Null though, already flipping a round table over to duck behind it as the Night Sphinx sends a green bolt of energy right at Bolero. It hits the table and singes it, cracking it in half. It’s loud as thunder, your yell going ignored as the two of them wreck the left side of the bar. 

This is the ignorance of the Radiants. They don’t care about how destructive they are, storming into places and letting others take damage as they make demands and use force when they want. 

Grabbing the scatterwave in your pocket. Bolero is dodging and waving blasts of energy from the man who chases him around the bar, blowing tables and chairs to bits. The other members of the Green Dragons have moved out of the warpath, collected near a booth on the far end of the bar, watching and jeering as Bolero doges a slice of concentrated energy that would have taken his head off.

“Fuckers,” you mutter. 

Palming the device you press the top of the scatterwave. The device is small but it lets out a high-pitched sound when activated, sharp enough to disrupt frequencies within a small radius. Its target is the darker colors on the caste, its high frequency enough of a distraction and disruption for Radiants that it makes it harder to radiate.  

The reaction is instantaneous. You feel nausea roll through your stomach and your world spins. It’s an earth-shattering noise, your ears vibrating with the force of the whistle. Your vision is blurry but you stumble toward where the two men are fighting, the Radiant bent over with his hands on his ears screaming from the force of the shatterwave. 

Bolero is unaffected. He has no frequency to scatter and he takes the shot, leaping at the struggling Radiant with a snarl on his face. 

“Not in here!” you screech. “He’s a Salib, you cannot kill him in Park territory. Go somewhere else! Bolero, please!” 

Bolero looks at you once, grey eyes full of fire. He has the intruder by the shirt collar, fisted tight as the man continues to thrash against the sound of your device. You think for a split second that Bolero is going to drag him out of the bar and do what you ask. He turns to look at the door, considering it. 

He decides not to. A knife appears in his hand and you yell as he stabs downward. You can’t hear the fleshy sound as Bolero sinks the blade in over the wailing of the device in your hand. He hits right between the ribs and up, a solid jab directly to the heart. The Radiant jerks in Bolero’s arms, his death twitch violent as he fists Bolero’s shirt, eyes wide, face aghast. Then he goes limp, sagging as a ragged breath leaves him. 

No one moves. Bolero holds the dead man in his arms, panting and looking down at him. They are so close, Bolero’s face right over the man’s and if you didn’t know any better, you might think they were lovers. Bolero slowly crouches down, suddenly gentle as he lays the dead body on the ground, hands hovering over him. 

You press the top of the shatterwave and it goes silent as it can with the high-pitched ring in your ears as you try to recover. You’re a little unsteady on your feet, pressing your hand against the bartop to keep your balance. A sharp pain behind your eyes signals an oncoming headache.

“What the fuck?” your voice sounds foreign and strained in the ringing quiet. “Are you fucking serious?”

Bolero rises, pulling the bloody knife with him. He wipes it on his pants and flips it in his fingers artfully. Familiar with blades, you note. He half turns to you and glances around the destroyed section of Monatna before he looks back at you and shrugs.

“Maybe you didn’t notice, but he was trying to kill me.”

“I don’t give a fuck. You kill people outside of this bar. You aren’t permitted to kill here.”

“Montana doesn’t protect its patrons?”

“Montana protects Green Dragons,” you clarify with a hiss.

You feel your fingers twitch. The familiar urge to radiate rises. It’s a natural instinct, to want to reach for the power that is right there on the edge of your mind all the time. You feel the emerald in your shoe. You imagine it beckons you, wiggling its fingers, begging to be used. 

You ignore it, pointing a finger at Bolero. “You fucked up and you know it. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a dead Night Sphynix?”

“Tell the Salib’s he attacked first.”

“You’re a Null asshole, it doesn’t matter that he attacked you first. You’re not fucking one of us.”

Something passes over Bolero’s face when you say it. Offense, you think. It’s there and gone so fast that you think you imagine it. You only feel a little guilty that he thinks you mean not a Radiant. You really mean not one of the Green Dragons but it doesn’t matter, in the end. 

He pulls his phone out. “My boss will pay for the damage and deal with the Salibs.”

“Unless your boss is Jimin fucking Park, that doesn’t really matter.” 

Bolero holds the phone up to his ear. You watch as he smirks a bit, shrugging. “Nah, but don’t worry about it.” 

“Oh I’m fucking worried about it,” you snarl. Jungkook is watching wordlessly, mouth parted slightly. “Call Jimin,” you bark at him, making him flinch. You immediately soften your voice. “Sorry, just - call Jimin.”

With a bow of his head, Jungkook grabs the phone and dials.

Jungkook starts murmuring quietly when Jimin - or an assistant, more like - answers the phone while you let yourself into the back and lock the backdoor for security before returning to the front. Bolero is sitting at the bar waiting, the dead Night Sphinx behind him. Red is beginning to pool around him, almost black against the dirty floor of the bar.

Heading to the door, you throw Gia a look. “Watch the bar,” you grunt. “Unlike you did when that fuck stick walked in here and ripped the place apart.”

She looks down her nose at you, eyes narrowed. Gia is terrifyingly beautiful, standing nearly a foot taller than you and built with wiry muscle. Her silky, black hair is braided out of her face, elegant and carved like one of the glass angels sold in the art district. Her eyes are the same color as her jewels, a stunning emerald that flashes in annoyance at your command. 

Gia nods once instead of arguing. The other Green Dragons behind her have the decency to look ashamed. While they aren’t heavies dedicated to protecting the Park family assets, they are low-level lackeys who could have prevented half the bar from being blown to bits by a Radiant. Especially the two amethyst caste twins who look at the wall blankly realizing what's going to happen now. 

Instead of stopping the Night Sphinx, they all stood there with drunk stares and half-tilted grins. Jimin won’t like it and they know it. It doesn’t matter that Montana isn’t an integral operation to the Green Dragons. It’s about pride and respect. The fact that a drunk, emerald caste man under the flag of the Salib family stumbled into Jimin’s bar, destroyed the place and then was killed by a Null is going to set Jimin off.

So you find a target to direct his anger at. 

Burro is slouched down on a leather couch at the Green Garter, exactly where you expect him. He doesn’t see you coming, the scattered green and white lights from the stage refracting and splitting into dozens of beams shining in his eyes as he stares at the topless woman on stage. There’s hardly anyone in the club and only a few people look startled when you grab him by the collar and yank him from the booth.

Security at the door and near the strange straighten up. The girl on stage keeps moving, lithe movements carrying her  away from where you lift Burro up, fingers digging into his shirt enough to rip. He smells like grain alcohol and sweat, the stubble on his face indicating that he may have slept in the club.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Come on,” you snarl at him, shooting daggers as one of the security guards steps in your direction. You let yourself radiate just a little, enough to give out a steady hum that even the lightest on the Jewel Caste can feel the sensation of an emerald jewel. He backs off immediately despite the fact that you can see and sense the amethyst pieces drilled into his pale knuckles. 

But there are two things that stop him: emerald is close enough to amethyst that a good Radiant can fuck up someone who is only a little darker than them on the Caste, and you’re a Radiant under the protection of the Park family, specifically Jimin, who owns the club. 

As much as it annoys the man whose job is to protect the dancers and the patrons, if you want to beat the shit out of Burro on the shitty green carpet in front of everyone, he has to allow it. You’re one of Jimin’s favorite little Radiants and everyone knows it, especially on this strip of road. 

No one stops you as you drag Burro out of the bar. His feet slide on the stained carpet, trying to find purchase as he yanks at your hand, shouting obscenities at you with his reeking breath. Your grip is iron, and you throw him as hard as you can once you’re back onto the sidewalk. He hits the ground hard, shoulder cracking against the street. 

Burro yells and rolls over, curling into himself. You fight the urge to kick him a few times, your wrath waiting like a coiled snake to strike out and punish him for being such a burden to deal with. You leave him in a fetal position, storming back into the bar to throw a couple of nill on the table for the drinks and a heavy sum more on the stage for the girl’s trouble. She winks at you, pretty enough to make you flush and spin on your heel to get back outside where Burro is still laying on the ground. 

Most of the time, you don’t bother. Burro is technically your manager and your superior. He’s an asshole and a waste of the Green Dragon's salary, which is why Jimin stuck him behind the bar, a punishment as much as a favor to Burro’s father who is a mid-ranking heavy in the Park family’s retinue. It’s as good as his son is willing to get for an emerald caste who is lazy and spends most of his days gambling, ogling at naked bodies, or wasted in a booth with Rollins. 

Even so, most days you let him yell at you. Throw curses your way. Drone about how shitty of a bartender you are - which is true - like a gnat that won’t leave. He’s harmless on good days, annoying on bad days, and he’s too afraid to retaliate in rare moments like this when you shove him into his ill-fitting role. 

“Get up,” you spit at him. You have the urge to crush his fingers that are spread out on the sidewalk. You think the loud crunch beneath your boot might be satisfying. You don’t, though. “Bolero just killed a Night Sphinx in the bar.”

“Swhwat?” 

You growl as he slurs, slowly pushing himself to his feet. You think he might have been handsome once. He has the making for it, but his days knocking back grain alcohol have weathered him. You see the early signs of Alloy addiction all over his face, scabs picked raw, leaving behind dark scarring, the track marks in his arms when he wears short sleeves.  

Raucous noise reaches you from a group of Night Sphinxes watching your exchange. Their laughter and whistles echo across the street, backed by the loud hum of shitty neon and the now very bright and flickering holographic display ads spinning in windows. This is a nice show for them, you’re sure. Everyone on this edge of Market Town has seen Burro get his shit kicked, though usually not by you.

“Get up, you’re embarrassing yourself.” You start marching back to Montana. “You’re needed at the bar. You know, the place you manage.” 

He mutters something behind you as he manages to get to his feet, tilted and tripping. You don’t catch what he says, eyes fixed on the sleek car that sits parked right in front of the door at Montana.

The road here isn’t really built for cars. It’s full of cracked faultlines and potholes, but Jimin has opted for a sharp-looking SUV with green LEDs running down the side and a little metal dragon on the grill. Not his personal car, but a business class that is no doubt reinforced with bulletproof windows and shatterwave tech. 

There are four men standing around the car, dressed in pressed suits, each with a dragon brooch pinned to the front. They nod when you walk by and you keep your eyes low, feeling the different colors as you pass by: amethyst, sapphire, emerald. They have jewels drilled into their knuckles and some of their teeth, earrings of polished stone, and necklaces set with their respective caste colors. 

Walking around with that much power is safe enough for them, but it makes your skin itch. Thinking of all that energy just waiting to be tapped into, waiting for them to radiate. The urge to reach for the power just a few feet away lessens as you walk inside of Montana. 

Inside is a vision. Jimin’s loyal group of Green Dragons sit together in a booth, silent and heads down. Maki glances up for a split second as you come through the door, anger twitching on her face before she looks back down at the table in resolute silence, her curtain of black hair hiding her scowl. 

Good. She could have used her fucking amethyst to wipe the now dead man from the map and not suffered a consequence under Jimin’s protection. And yet there you are, walking slowly toward the scene of the crime. 

Jungkook is standing behind the bar chewing on his lip, hands linked behind his back as he watches the two men in front of him conversing. Bolero smokes a cigarette on the same stool he was on earlier, eyes fixated on the holo once again. The dead man is still very dead, Jimin’s men spread out around the bar to assess the damage.

Jimin is one of the two men speaking at the bar in front of Jungkook. Jimin’s dressed sharply in black dress pants and a matching black, tailored jacket with emerald buttons and a beautiful dragon broach set with emeralds and jade. His arms are crossed as he listens passively, dark hair slicked back. There’s a single dangling earring in one ear, a teardrop diamond at the end.

Jimin Park is one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. He reminds you of a dangerous jungle cat. His eyes are sharp, shadowed by a full-fan of dark lashes, cheeks round and soft in contrast to his elegant jawline. He smiles at something the man he’s talking to says, full lips rosebud pink.

Your eyes drift to the man talking to Jimin and before you can think twice about interrupting them, you’re yelling, “You!” 

Both of the men jerk their heads in your direction. Jimin’s brows shoot up and he shakes his head as if to ask what the fuck? But you’re too distracted by the other man, who grins at you as soon as he realizes who you are, adjusting his floral shirt as he turns to face you head on. 

You get a better look at him now and you’re angry to discover that he is still just as stunning as he was in the middle of the Market Town stalls. His hair is pushed back out of his face more, eyes twinkling as they drag up and down your frame. He wiggles his fingers at you in a wave. 

“You can’t just steal tangerines!” you bark at him suddenly. 

“What?” Jimin asks. He frowns and looks between the two of you. “I’m sorry, do you know one another?” The man says ‘no’ at the exact same time you say ‘sort of’ which makes Jimin’s jaw tick, patience waning. “Well? Which is it?” 

“Seen her once,” the man admits. “But I don’t know her. She chased me through the streets of Market Town today like a lunatic. I think she took one look at me and fell in love.”

Your jaw drops. “You stole fruit from Margot’s fruit stand motherfucker! It had nothing to do with your good looks.” 

“So you admit I’m good-looking!”

A failed attempt at a response comes sputtering out of you. You stop and start your sentences multiple times, trying to come up with a wicked riposte to his ridiculous insinuation that you think he’s attractive. Which you do, especially when he gives you a full, shit-eating gummy grin. 

“Enough,” Jimin snaps in your direction. “Wait with Jungkook, I’ll deal with you later. And don’t interrupt me again, got it?” 

You bow deeply at the command.  You feel hot all over, an unpleasant mix of shame and something else that you can’t place for “Yes sir. I apologize for my outburst.” 

Jimin turns away from you and back to the tangerine thief, leaving you to rush behind the bar to stand next to Jungkook while you stare at the two of them.  

You have no idea who this man is. You’ve never seen him in the bar with Bolero, though it’s possible he’s come in when you’re not working. It isn’t likely, since there’s only one additional bartender besides you and Jungkook, but you can’t possibly imagine how this man is important enough to look Jimin in the eye when he speaks.

Jungkook gives you a head tilt and doe eyes. You shake your head, opting instead to study the object of your irritation rather than explaining. He doesn’t ask any questions but you can see the way he shifts back and forth, unsure of where to focus his energy. 

As one of the family members in the city’s Armory, Jimin is one of the highest-ranking citizens in Diade. Though the Green Dragons are on the bottom of the totem in the Armory, Jimin ranks higher than most of the city by being the son of his family’s leader. 

The man speaking to Jimin looks at him directly in the eyes as an equal. He is a hairsbreadth taller, but his gaze and tone are steady and respectful. There is no air of superiority between the two of them, making you wonder where exactly this smug man falls on the spectrum of city authority. 

Each face of the Armory is familiar to you: the Parks, the Manobals, the Salibs, the Achilleos’ and the Kims. This man belongs to none of them and yet Jimin listens to him calmly, nodding his head at whatever the man is saying. Jimin’s arms are looped behind his back and he is poised as ever, even making a joke or two as they exchange words in hushed tones. 

In Diade, the ruling family syndicates are the ultimate power. Jimin’s family owns the territory to the southeast, the Salib’s directly to the north, the Manobals to the west. You stick to Park territory only, always mindful of where each Armory boundary lies. 

Despite Jimin’s favoritism, you’re not a high-ranking member of the Park family’s Green Dragons. Jimin thinks you’re useful enough though, and has a soft heart for strays. Jungkook is proof enough of that as you are, two little sources of information and loyalty in his personal pocket. 

You work for Jimin, not his mother. 

The respect that Jimin shows the tangerine thief leads to a few possibilities of who he could be. Under the rule of the Armory, there are other smaller and less organized gangs. The Circles are not particularly powerful and still concede to the Armory, but they range from loose bands of idiots and thieves to highly organized factions. There are dozens of Circles in the city, but only a few are powerful enough to earn a smile from Jimin Park, the prince of the Green Dragons. 

Chewing your lip, your mind runs through a list of possible Circles this man could rank high enough in to matter. White Fang has always worked with the Green Dragons well. Their members can sometimes be found hanging out in Montana with tight if not overly polite smiles while they conduct business. While White Fang answers to all of the families of the Armory as a collective governing body, they are particularly fond of the Parks. 

There is little chance that the tangerine thief belongs to the Midnight Sun. As the largest and most powerful Circle, they are only allied to the Kim family. Dangerous for any Circle to declare allyship to only a single governing body, but the Kim family sits at the top of the food chain. Being protected by Yujun and his son Seokjin have its strengths.  

Your vision blurs when you think of the Kim family. Seokjin’s beautiful smile, the way his inky eyes glitter. He remains the most eternal person you’ve ever laid eyes on, and one of the most charming. Funny, smooth talking, intelligent. 

But Seokjin is a snake. A beautiful thing that can fool you into a false sense of security before striking and sinking his fangs in deep.  

Nausea unfurls in your stomach at the thought of him. You blink a few times, willing away the memories of him and his high-pitched laughter and anything else to do with him. Jimin shakes the man’s hand in front of you. It draws your attention to where their hands meet. Jimin’s hand is small and delicate in the large hand of the tangerine thief. A man who was raised with privilege and a man you suspect made his own. 

“I’ll be back,” Jimin calls. You realize he’s talking to you and you bow. He turns his attention to the group of his gang members sitting at the table, waiting for their punishment. He whistles at them, calling them like dogs. “With me.” 

You can’t help but feel a little smug as they jump up, tangled over one another to get out of the booth as fast as possible to follow Jimin toward the front door. None of them look at you or Jungkook, chins tucked to their chest and eyes on the floor. At least they’re good dogs who know when they’re going to be punished. 

“Hello again.” 

The tangerine thief is leaning on the bar. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and a hint of sea salt. It isn’t unpleasant, but you grimace all the same. There are bracelets on his wrist, but no jewels. The prickling, needle-like sensation comes back, right at the back of your neck.

“Jungkook, can you start cleaning up?” You ask. He nods and dashes away, giving the stranger a single nervous glance as he joins the security members of Jimin’s team cleaning up. 

They pick up the body and carry him through the bag on Jungkook’s guidance, dripping blood the entire way. Bolero doesn’t even glance as they pass him, still transfixed by the holoscreen. 

“Why did you use a shatterwave?”

Your eyes drift back to the man in front of you. Up close, you notice that his skin is flawless. He has a shine and glow to him of a healthy Radiant, and yet you’re not sure how to place him on the caste. You know he’s a radiant from his escape methods in Market Town, but you’ve never had this much trouble placing someone on the caste. “What?” 

“The shatterwave. Had to hurt you too, I imagine.” 

“Well no one else was going to do anything,” you answer, skirting his assertion that you’re a Radiant. “It didn’t hurt that bad. I’m a Light Radiant.” 

He raises his brows. “Oh, you’re a liar.” 

“About some things, sure. I can’t take on an emerald caste, though. So I used a shatterwave.” 

“There’s an emerald in your boot.” 

You grit your teeth. He doesn’t make sense. The needling feeling only increases as he cocks his head, scanning you from head to toe. His pout turns into a smirk and there’s something heated in his gaze that makes you squirm as you shift back and forth on your feet, trying to place him. 

Sensing jewel frequencies outside of the jewel you radiate most with is difficult. Energy is a fickle thing, and though you can feel the buzz of every color of jewel around you, most Radiants can’t. They can only sense what jewel they vibrate on the same frequency as, though trained Radiants can sense their assigned jewel and lighter. 

This puts the tangerine thief at emerald or darker. If he can sense the emerald in your shoe, it means he can use it. Unless he is a rare case like you and Jungkook, who are frequency sensitive. But he doesn’t feel like emerald and he doesn’t feel like he sits darker at garnet and onyx. 

You shiver remembering what onyx feels like, an oppressive and demanding thing.  

“It wouldn’t be the first time I lied,” you offer. You can keep skirting the topic of the emerald in your shoe, but he already knows it's there. 

He chuckles. It’s raspy and soft as a whisper. There’s no doubt he’s used to the effect he has on people. It reminds you a little of Seokjin and you feel skittish.

“No, I’m sure you are quite the liar.” He leans in a little bit. “I’m Agust, by the way.” 

Schooling your features is hard. Out of all of the Circles that crossed your mind that he could belong to, you never considered Black Lotus. It makes sense, you suppose, that Bolero belongs to the Black Lotus. It’s one of the few Circles in the city that not only accept Nulls in their ranks, but encourage it. A little oasis for Radiants and Nulls alike to claw their way to the top from the bottom of the barrel. 

My boss will pay for the damage and deal with the Salibs. You think of Bolero’s comment, realizing why he was so confident. His boss is the leader of the Black Lotus, a chaotic thorn in the Armory’s side who walks around the Crown Cities undermining authority where he can. 

Agust smiles, pride bleeding through when you recognize his name. He’s a little notorious for the destruction of three Circles associated with the Kim family and for donating thousands of nil to squatters in Blows. A violent killer with a soft spot for charity. Strange, and not quite as heroic as some seem to think it is. 

Instead of saying anything, you busy yourself with folding rags, feeling the way of his gaze. Agust is pretty with a soft edge to his face and a charming grin. There’s a confidence about him that draws the eye, and yet he can blend in just like he did at Margot’s fruit stand. He is both sides of the moon, light and dark, switching whenever it suits him. 

Again, he reminds you of Seokjin and your heart squeezes as you take a step away from him.

“Well, I hope you have a great evening, Agust.” It's dismal. Polite, but an end to the conversation nevertheless.  

He isn’t swayed. “What, no name?”

“Do you need it?”

“I’d like it. Is it as pretty as you are?”

“Your flattery isn’t welcome here.” 

“Then what is?”

You glare. “The money for Margot’s tangerine.” 

Agust chuckles again and shrugs. You expect him to walk away or volley back with a riposte but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the nil that Margot is owed and sets them on the counter, the silver coins clinking against the wood. He leans against the bar again, hand cupping his chin as he looks up at you.

“This cover me?” 

You swipe the coins off the bar and sniff. “I suppose.” 

“I like you. How about I call you Montana, hmm? Since you won’t give me a name, I’ll make one for you.”

Instead of looking at him directly, you busy yourself with moving around the syrup bottles in their plastic bin. “You don’t have to call me anything.” 

“Or Garnet?”

For a second, you stare at your hands before slowly dragging your gaze to him where he watches you, feline-eyes glittering. That pinprick feeling returns sharper than ever. You’re a mouse caught under the watchful gaze of a hungry cat. 

There are only a handful of people in the world that knows you sit on the second darkest color of the Jewel Caste. One of them is outside giving his gang members the lashing of a lifetime, one of them is sitting in a luxurious home in Aria and the other is no doubt watching cameras on the casino floor of Kaiju. 

Sweat gathers on the back of your neck. You think about the first time you radiated at garnet, the power so raw and rich that you were almost drunk on it. You were just a kid, untrained in how to syphon energy that volatile. You’d become sick right after, taking too much too fast and completely unaware of how to channel all that energy.

The Kim’s had helped you find a way. And then used it to their advantage, a little girl with no one else to count on with all that power just waiting to be directed. 

You refused to ever be used for your place on the Jewel Caste ever again. 

“Say it again,” you murmur, voice low. Your hands open and close and you feel the emerald surge in your boot. Agust is either onyx or frequency sensitive, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve gone head to head with darker than you before. “I dare you.”

To your surprise, his smile is sad this time. There’s a moment you think you see understanding. Compassion. Something soft. Then it’s gone and he gives you a brief nod before pushing away from the bar, running a hand through his hair. You don’t move, muscles locked and primed to lash out, to grind him to dust if you have to. You don’t have a garnet, but you don’t need it. You can do just as much damage with an emerald, regardless of whatever color he is. 

“Put the claws away, your secret is safe with me.” He nods to the pool of blood on the floor. “You have my apologies for the mess. Black Lotus will handle the fallout. Tell Bolero if any of those Night Sphinx fucks give you any trouble. You have my word I’ll pay my debt.”

“What debt?” 

He jerks his thumb at Bolero. “You saved his worthless ass.” You don’t disagree but you say nothing. He lingers for a second, looking you up and down. Something passes his face that makes your heart speed up a little. “I mean it. Call if you need.”

“I won't.” 

He grins. “Bye, Montana.” 

When Agust turns to leave, Bolero gets up and goes with him. When the door shuts, it’s just you and the sound of Jungkook and Jimin’s men putting the bar back together. 

No one can hear how loud your heart thunders. 

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Ask | Series Playlist | Series Masterlist | Tag Lists | Next Chapter

THE JEWEL CASTE (from least to most powerful)

Light Caste

Diamond Citrine Aquamarine Jade Rose

Mid Caste

Peridot Topaz Turquoise Ruby Smokey

Dark Caste

Emerald Amethyst Sapphire Garnet Onyx

THE CHAOTIC CASTE (in general, from least to most powerful)

Opal Quartz Tourmaline Carnelian  Obsidian 

GLOSSARY

Alloy - A drug that allows radiants to lift frequency for a temporary amount of time and meld with a jewel they cannot normally radiate with.  Caste Drop - When someone drops a color on the Jewel Caste and vibrates at a higher frequency  Circle - Lower gangs who are not in the Armory Dark Radiant - Those who vibrate at the low-colors and high frequencies Jewel Caste - The order of least to most powerful vibrational jewel frequencies  Light Radiant - Those who vibrate at the lighter colors and lower frequencies  Mid Radiant - Those who vibrate at the mid-colors and medium frequencies Null - Those who don’t vibrate at the same frequency as the jewels and cannot radiate Radiant - Those who vibrate at the same frequency as the jewels and thus can radiate Shatterwave - A type of device that lets out high-frequency sounds to shatter Radiant frequencies in a certain radius Unjeweled - A radiant who doesn’t have any jewels on them to help radiate

[nicodemuslily]

Father and daughters (AU)

I forgot to post this sketchdump even if I drew it before the page with my fabulous trio of stormtroopers. ^^;

I just wanted to draw Sinker passing some good times with his girls. ^^

___

A friend of mine is at the hospital and I can’t go to see her (it’s pretty far from where I live and the visits are restricted). 

I feel so useless.  T-T 

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Identity Pt 3

Part (3) of Identity, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Well, guess I decided to make up for the last two chapters being on the small side. I admit, I was super intimidated by this one. It's a bit of a change from how my chapters usually go, though the next one will fall back into more familiar territory 😉 Also, @captainrex89, sorry! I absolutely didn't mean to leave you out of my previous tags, and thank you for bringing it to my attention! ❤️

Warnings: Brotherly bullying, varying degrees of dread, unwanted advances (between two women, though I want to be clear: the 'unwanted' aspect is not due to gender), profanity, brief descriptions of gore and burns, needles, brief description of dead bodies

WC: 5,953

Sleep refused to return to me after the conversation with Wolffe, thoughts conflicted between betrayal and guilt. I would never be able to bring myself to regret joining Hunter and his brothers, but the knowledge that Wolffe let me go so easily hurt in a way that left my heart writhing in my chest. It was almost a relief when the time came to begin mission prep despite the lingering anxiety in every terrifying unknown that entailed.

I’d had no say in the elaborate gown chosen for me, nor had I ever had to adorn such pretentious attire during my years as a medic, a thing for which I instantly found myself profoundly grateful as I fought against the urge to scratch at the elegant lacework adorning my arms and neck or to readjust the layers of heavy silks draped about my chest and hips. While the garment was a stunning example of Separatist finery, the life it represented held no attraction to me, and I found myself loathing the way it clung to my figure just enough to impede my movement.

After wasting several minutes trying to secure the clasps at my back without stretching or tearing anything, I finally accepted defeat with a sigh and headed toward the chorus of voices in the neighboring room and had to swallow back the flare of self-consciousness at how quickly they fell silent the instant I tread through the door.

“Yeah, yeah; quit gawking. Who’s going to help me button this thing up?” I drawled, rolling my eyes as though my cheeks weren’t heated beneath a violent blush. Boost instantly shot up, beaming smile on his face, but Warthog slid his foot forward just enough to catch his brother’s ankle, sending the man crashing down with a sharp curse. I was laughing too hard to notice Sinker until he stood mere feet before me, waiting impatiently for me to turn my back to him. Flashing him a toothy grin, I spun around.

“Anything broken?” I called back upon hearing Boost’s deep groan.

“Just my pride…” He replied morosely, earning a fresh bout of chuckles as I pointedly ignored the careful movements of Sinker’s fingers gradually working up my spine.

“Any questions about your cover story?” The Sergent asked.

“I’d be a bit embarrassed if I did.” I answered, brow hitching as I glanced over my shoulder at him. “It’s almost too close to the truth for comfort.”

“Easier to make it believable that way.” He said dismissively. I knew he was right, and being able to call on actual memory to support my manufactured cover of being the daughter of a senator from Agamar admittedly lessened my anxiety of the façade. I didn’t doubt how quickly that anxiety would return upon reaching the gala, however; how alone I’d be as soon as I stepped off the platform and listened to the engines fade as Wolffe and his men acted their part of chauffer before circling around to infiltrate the grand structure elsewhere. I glanced down at the slim band about my wrist, noting how brilliantly the twined metals gleamed under the fluorescents.

“You sure this thing isn’t going to set off any sensors?” I asked, twisting my arm to begrudgingly admire the elegant jewelry.

“Getting nervous, civi?” I could hear the smirk in Sinker’s voice, and instantly shot him an unamused glare.

“As long as you don’t activate it until after you’re inside, you’ll be fine.” Boost reassured me as he finally pushed himself to his feet. “We’ll hear you loud and clear the whole time.” I forced my lips into a smile at his approach, though I found little comfort in his words. Once they were clear, they’d send a signal to the bracelet, causing it to buzz twice granting me permission to take my leave, and I knew I’d be painfully aware of its delicate weight the entire time, second guessing if I’d missed the subtle alert or worrying that someone else might notice it if it went off at an inopportune moment…

“I swear, if you just jinxed me, Boost…” I warned jokingly, earning a cheeky grin.

“That other squad has you all jumpy.” Warthog accused, stretching his legs out atop the now vacant couch. “I don’t remember you being so nervous with us.”

“You’re clearly forgetting that mission on Nal Hutta.” Sinker retorted, drawing an affronted scoff from me.

“You mean when you sold me to the karking hutts?!” Before I’d finished speaking, both Warthog and Sinker were laughing shamelessly. Only Boost had the good sense to look at least partially chastised.

“We got you back.” He reminded me, voice lilting between apology and compromise. Before I could more than twist my lips in reply, the door hissed open as Comet joined us.

“Hey! You clean up nicely, med’ika!” He greeted happily, utterly oblivious to the ire warming my blood. I gave a mock curtsy before letting out a small sigh.

“How close are we to leaving hyperspace?”

“Any second. Wolffe sent me to grab Warthog.” He answered, looking past me to where his brother lounged contently. The pilot let out a reluctant grumble but offered no further argument before grabbing his helmet and starting toward the cockpit as the ship shuttered slightly. This was the most dangerous moment; waiting to see if our clearance codes were accepted planet-side or if we’d be shot down before ever nearing atmo. The four of us waited in tense silence as the engines stalled, surely marking the beginnings of Warthog’s attempts to grant us access to land. Mere seconds later, everyone in the room let out a small breath of relief as the ship roared back to life.

“You ready?” Comet asked in a fond whisper.

“I’m just going into a room filled with people I’m trying to overturn without so much as a dagger to protect myself. Why wouldn’t I be ready?” Even that growing anxiety couldn’t quell the flood of affection at his gentle laugh, cheeks warming as he slipped his hand through my hair to touch his forehead softly against mine.

“You’ll do great.” How could I not believe him when he spoke with such unfettered quiet, that subtle smile granting each word an effortless confidence that swept the tension from my frame absent even the memory of doubt.

“Remember, we’ll be able to hear you the entire time. You just need to meet the contact, monitor security details, and get out when we tell you to.” Sinker’s attempt at crisp professionalism nearly hid the hint of his own worry from bleeding through, and I offered him a comforting smile as he lightly bumped his head to mine as well before he and Comet started toward the back rooms lest they be seen upon landing.

“Be careful, med’ika.” Boost murmured, shamelessly forgoing the routine keldabe kiss to lightly press his lips to my forehead.

The silence that fell around me after he joined his brothers was deafening; the fleeting calm granted by Comet’s innate quiet fading away beneath the impending reality of how many ways this mission could go wrong.

Just as the telltale shuttering of atmosphere jostling the ship began, the cockpit door slid open, instantly drawing my attention. Wolffe stood with his arms locked about his chest, head tilted down ever so slightly as he studied me with those unflinching, intense eyes. I felt my body still beneath his gaze, all thought toward sobbed apologies and shouted accusation abandoned in favor of the desire to simply remember every night I’d sought him out for the wisdom gained by the loss of too many brothers, for the unwavering conviction of his carefully metered responses in the face of every moment of crippling doubt and regret and fear that had haunted me in those first months after abandoning my home world.

I still felt the desperate need to know why he’d let me go, but some unspoken warning forbade me from asking, and my shoulders sank with a forfeited sigh.

“Don’t get yourself killed, kid.” It was such a rare thing for him to whisper like that, like there was so much more hanging on every word, painstakingly stifled into silence, allowed existence only in the way his jaw clenched in that forced stillness. My lips parted, chest swelling with a breath I knew I couldn’t risk releasing in anything other than a sharp exhale.

“You too, Wolffe.” I replied in that same, unsatisfied quiet. We both seemed to pause, almost pleading the other to break, to find some means of washing away the shadows cast by lips loosened beneath too much heartbreak and confusion in the hushed hours of night, but there wasn’t time for it. There never would be, and that was an agony I knew we’d simply have to live with.

The acceptance that softened those eyes drew a weary smile to my lips. With a small nod, he stepped back, allowing the door to close once more between us, and was again, I stood painfully alone, though that solitude felt somewhat lighter. I think I’d found myself expecting him to avoid me in the wake of my outburst, but I should have known better. Wolffe had never been one to hide regardless the weight of whatever decision or confrontation awaited him. It was simultaneously intimidating and envying, but my relief in not having to tread into the gala with that uncertainty cloying my thoughts was a blessing I was too eager to accept.

-

Music dominated the center hall, brass resonating through domed ceilings as strings sang of unknown sorrows and lost loves. What unearthly vocals accompanied the masterful orchestra lingered in subtle reverie rather than making any attempt to monopolize the attention of the dizzying number of senators and dictators and generals garbed in finery worth more than their citizens could hope to ever earn in their lifetimes floating about the grand ballroom careful only to avoid the disastrous social scandal of treading across the center stage absent a partner to mimic them in some pre-choreographed dance that had long since sacrificed all memory of passion in favor of empty symbolism that none cared to even pretend to remember.

I’d purposefully avoided all but the fringes of the room, save for a handful of forced conversations for the sake of my cover, head tilted up in silent judgement of those around me as I pretended to sip whatever pale liquid filled the crystal flute I’d been offered upon entering. B2 droids stood frozen in precise formation within enclaves built elegantly into the walls, almost more a decoration than true security. Their armor gleamed brilliantly beneath the enhanced candlelight flickering throughout the chandeliers floating overhead, void of scuffs or dirt or any signs that they’d ever seen battle. Still, I didn’t doubt how quickly they’d snap to attention at the faintest show of danger.

The droids weren’t my primary focus, however. Hidden within the higher echelon lingered just as many organic guards as those made of cold metals lining the gala. Each time I drew the glass to my lips, I counted off another half dozen, noting their clothes and species and any other details that might identify them. Years spent in the GAR left certain habits painfully obvious despite how the Separatist soldiers tried to blend in; shoulders held just so, the way their eyes scanned the room, the practiced tempo of their strides that only decades of intention could ever hope to unlearn.

My attention kept wandering back to those brave enough or bold enough or bored enough to find themselves gliding around one another in that antiqued dance, my lips just hinting at a smile as thoughts drifted far from this façade of self-importance. It was so easy to imagine Tech embodying the exact precision of those movements, tall form granting each stride an elegance lost to so many of those fumbling through the motions. I wondered how long Wrecker would humor the uninspiring steps before yielding beneath his desire to simply enjoy the moment; how his innate glee for life might grant new meaning to the music through a dance all his own. Hunter, surely, would find no joy in the act itself, but would amuse the both of us with whispered comments on those around us, noting groundless confidence in a nearby couple as one believed themselves far more accomplished than their clearly unimpressed partner, how he might create tales of how certain persons found themselves here when, in truth, they would prefer a stale beer in a raucous bar, while Echo would embody the perfect partner, matching movement for movement with a gentle conversation to free me of all thought toward where we were and who we were with; and Crosshair… I doubted any combination of pleas or promises would succeed in dragging him amidst the countless dancers yet found myself wishing for the chance to try all the same.

“That bracelet wouldn’t happen to be of Dal-Shay make, would it?” My gaze instantly snapped to the rugged voice, heart jilting at the codeword meant to reveal the contact I’d been sent to meet, and I froze, ice shooting through my veins and blistering beneath my skin. I knew those eyes. I knew those hands, and though his hair had thinned with age, I held no doubt toward who stood before me.

“I… I must be mistaken. Apologies.” He quickly murmured, head ducking politely as he began to step away.

“Uh; not at all.” I stammered, cheeks warming from the brief misstep, and stretched my arm toward him to reveal the telltale ornament. “You have a good eye.” Relief clearly shown in that eerily familiar face as I tried to convince myself that my initial assumption had to be some trick of the mind even as I found myself longing to ask if he remembered how his children laughed as he tried to teach them the very dance playing out before us.

“I understand we’re in for a treat with the gala’s speaker tonight.” He said warmly, attention turning to absently follow the orchestrated performance alongside me, shoulder just near enough to brush mine. I dropped my hand near his, shifting to block the brief contact of him slipping the tiny datachip between my fingers.

“I thought that was meant to be a surprise.” The feigned reprimand in my voice was enough to draw a chuckle from the older man, and I took the opportunity to appear mockingly insulted, arms crossing my chest that I might tuck the chip away through the lacework binding my neck.

“Whoever it is, I’m sure we’ll all be regaled with inspirational goals and haughty assurances primed to loosen ample credits to feed the war effort.” I continued in an uninterested sigh. He released a hum of agreement but let a moment of silence settle between us.

“May I ask you something?” I asked quietly. His attention flicked only briefly to me, lips pulling into the heartbreaking ruination of a smile.

“Of course.” There was a weary warmth to his voice that spoke toward a broken hope he couldn’t let go of.

“How did you come to find yourself here?” I offered no forged smile as I looked toward him, reflecting the solemn heaviness clear in his eyes as he drew a slow, deep breath.

“I lost my wife to the war.” I’d almost expected him to offer some pre-conceived dismissal, but there was no reservation in his reply; no effort to hide the way his words haunted him still. “Then I lost myself to the grief, and because of that, I lost my daughter, too. By then, it was too late to save my son, but I realized something. I could either continue drinking myself into a grave that wasn’t coming near quick enough, or I could try to do something.” He gave a small shrug, and I had to lock my cheek between my teeth to stem the threat of tears.

“’Something?’” I echoed, brow hitching slightly, and the flare of mischief that lit those eyes reminded me of endless afternoons filled with laughter and a love I hadn’t felt in far too long.

“Not gonna say my motives are entirely altruistic,” he admitted with a half-concealed smirk, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than lying around feeling sorry for myself.” Maker, I wanted to tell him… I wanted to make him look at my eyes and beg him to recognize me, but how could I? He’d found something to live for, and I couldn’t begin to guess how he’d react upon learning what had happened to me when I suddenly vanished… what happened to my brother…

“I think that’s amazing.” I murmured instead, voice just hinting at the tension coiling up my throat. He flashed me that smile once more, and I could feel every ounce of guilt and exhaustion weighing on him, but then he let out a small sigh.

“Probably best I see myself out right about now.” There was a gratitude in his words as he bowed his head. “It was a pleasure talking with you… Good luck.” My lips parted, and I only just managed to bite back the words screaming for breath.

“Take care.” The quiet whisper left in something just shy of a sob as I watched him start toward the main entrance, and I wondered how he’d made it past the iris scanners and blood tests that had taken the powerhouse of the Republic to see me through when I first entered those grandiose doors. I wondered if he’d found himself a part of some thriving network working against the Separatists from within, if he’d made new friends and new lovers that helped see him through the long nights and hopeless days. I wanted that for him. I wanted to find him when the war ended and tell him everything; to apologize for blaming him when I had no concept of how effortlessly loss could drown a person, and beg his forgiveness for my contribution to that loss, but, again, I found myself bound to a silence I loathed by the extraordinary circumstances we’d somehow placed ourselves in.

The pale liquid swirling within my glass suddenly looked far too tempting. Shoulders swelling beneath a carefully metered breath, I brought the chilled cup to my lips.

“Package acquired. Continuing patrol.”

-

Another half hour saw me through several more loops around the elaborate ballroom, with another dozen or so undercover soldiers identified and a final count on the displayed droids. I hated not knowing how Wolffe and the others were doing, if they’d reached their target or if they’d been captured… killed… I hated how my dread grew with each passing minute of hoping that damned bracelet would grant me some sign that they were alive, that we could leave, but I’d seen those men survive far more treacherous assignments than this. It would be foolish to doubt them now, nor was there anything I could do to quiet my fears either way.

“You seem frightfully alone tonight.” My attention snapped toward the crisp, well-spoken greeting to find a tall woman drifting to an easy stance a few feet from me.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I retorted coyly despite the nervous trill dancing beneath my skin. She looked so nearly human; pronounced cheekbones emphasizing the powerful build of her jawline, jett-black hair falling midway down her neck, not a strand out of place beneath the carefully applied product slicking it back, but there was a subtle blue tint to her skin that left me feeling a chill despite the climate-controlled air filling the room.

“I suppose that depends on your preference toward the available company.” She yielded with a good-natured bow, pale lips just hinting at a smirk. I knew well enough to judge the broad width of her shoulders for the earnest strength and skill they represented rather than some consequence of mere vanity.

“It would seem rather bold to dismiss a building full of the most wealthy members of the Separatist Alliance.” I shot back, brow hitching slightly.

“And yet…” She motioned toward me with a knowing grin, and I found myself letting out a quiet chuckle.

“And yet.” I repeated, offering no argument to the implication.

“I think we might be each other’s solution to the monotony of tonight’s obligatory attendance.” My heart dropped at the implication in her words, the eagerness in hazel eyes garnished with streaks of crimson, mind already racing for some way to excuse myself. “Is there any way I might convince you to join me for a dance?” Kriff…. kriff, kriff, kriff… It took every ounce of self-control to school my expression into some façade of curiosity vailed beneath feigned disinterest.

“I’m afraid you’ll not find me nearly so capable as the partners already waiting near the stage.” I replied with a pointedly insincere apology, glancing toward eager faces standing at the edge of the dance floor silently hoping for someone to join them.

“Ah, but I’ve never been fond of accepting what is so effortless to take.” My jaw tensed at how fondly she mimicked my attempted dismissal. “You strike me as a challenge, and that is far more tempting than the promise of performing thoughtlessly repeated steps with equally thoughtlessly repeated conversation.” The thin chain suddenly felt impossibly heavy, attention desperately pleading for it to vibrate, for it to flutter with that quick signal that I might flee this place.

“I’m here neither to act as temptation nor cure for your boredom.” I retorted with no small hue of offense. The woman responded with a huff of abashed laughter.

“Of course.” She hummed ruefully. “And yet…?” I nearly rolled my eyes at the charming smile as she held her hand toward me, cursing the impossibility of my position. If I declined, would her wounded pride see her to one of the guards with questions none could answer? Would it be safer to humor her, if only to serve as distraction lest her curiosity reveal the fallacy of my identity? Could I even recall enough to mimic those swaying to music that deserved far grander celebration than the subdued series of near-touches and attentive gazes?

“And yet…” I sighed with an almost reluctant defeat as I lightly set my hand atop hers, and I wanted to sneer at the victory that lit her eyes. “I warn you, however; I haven’t partaken in this archaic dance since I was a child.”

“Shall I offer promises not to let you fall, nor laugh should you stumble?” I did roll my eyes at that, but she only chuckled gleefully, strides unfaltering as she led me to the edge of the dance floor, thumb resting so gently against my fingers that I barely felt it.

“You haven’t told me your name.” I noted without drawing my gaze from the closing flurries of motion in the encroaching finale of the song, desperately trying to recall how to perform those movements myself.

“And doesn’t that just make it all the more interesting?” She teased. I merely scoffed, fighting back the threat of panic upon watching the dancers offer their partners a low bow before taking their leave that the next batch might take their place.

“What’s it like on your planet?” She asked as we stepped forward. My chest ached from how violently my heart thrashed within me, barely able to keep the nervous tremble from legs hesitantly assuming the appropriate beginning pose.

“Cold.” I answered with a small shrug, as though I couldn’t be bothered to explain further. “I suppose the springtime is pretty enough – when the farmlands are in bloom.” The music began in a gentle, lilting murmur, guiding us through those first few steps absent embarrassment. I tried not to show how I struggled to offer even simple conversation in the midst of straining to fall back into some semblance of muscle-memory from lessons taken decades prior. “And you? What are your homelands like?”

“I wouldn’t know.” That drew my attention more pointedly to the woman effortlessly striding around me in careful rhythm to the growingly pronounced bass. “I was turned over to the state as an infant – grew up in various military schools until I was old enough to enlist.” There was neither grief nor shame in her voice, and I couldn’t help but respect her for that.

“Then you have both my condolences and my congratulations.” I said quietly with a respectful nod. “I suppose there must be something special about you to have seen you from such tragedy to where you now stand.” Her lips twitched with a prideful grin before she could fully suppress it.

“I should like to think so.” She answered, shoulders drawing back slightly as she stood just a hair’s breadth taller.

“Did you ever try to find them?” I asked, forgoing the social normalcy forbidding such potentially unpleasant topics. “Your parents?”

“Why would I?” She so nearly hid it, but I could hear the faintest note of contempt in that airy question. “They saw no reason to be in my life, so I’ve no reason to strive to be in theirs.” Freed of overthinking each movement, my body flowed naturally in time with hers, and I tried not to draw my own attention to that revelation lest I break whatever trance guided my limbs.

“There’s no weakness in seeking to understand why.” I paused as I spun away from her, glancing back to just catch her gaze over my shoulder until the next beat saw me facing her once more. “Nor is there weakness is mourning what their absence robbed from you.” A somber quiet eased the earlier glee from her eyes, though she made no effort to look away from me.

“I’ve had time to mourn.” She stepped just inches closer than she should have, and my heart balked at the sudden intimacy in those near-touches. “I’ve let myself feel anger at their abandonment, curiosity toward their motives, and I find myself in the same state of mind after each burst of emotion: gratitude.” My brow hitched at that, silently inviting her to explain. “Had they not surrendered me to the Alliance, I may never have committed myself so fully to its cause.” Oh. “As I am, there’s nothing to distract me from my mission,” Oh no. “And that freedom for absolute devotion is a boon few understand.” This woman was dangerous in ways I had no means of protecting myself against. I needed to run. Now.

“Nothing distracts you?” I pressed, fighting the way my eyes wanted to dart toward the main doors and forcing some taste of flirtation in my voice, expression carefully drawn into something resembling a teasing grin which she happily returned.

“There’s a difference between enjoying certain… pleasantries and allowing those pleasantries to become a hindrance.” I let out a quite scoff.

“Maker forbid anything of the sort.” The taunt barely caused the woman to narrow her eyes. “Still… the results speak for themselves.” I offered, pointedly letting my gaze travel down her meticulously kept form, drawing a haughty smirk to her lips.

She’d just drawn breath to reply when the music faded to an unexpected halt, notes hanging in the air just long enough to draw our attention away from each other, and I vaguely noticed the odd looks several of the other dancers kept shooting us before a man began to speak at the podium overlooking the ballroom from the second story, flanked by an ensemble of stern looking military commanders.

“Esteemed guests and colleagues, now that you’ve had time to partake in conversation, arts, and libations – enough, I hope, to loosen premeditated budgets – it’s time to announce our guest speaker!” A gentle laughter rolled through the crowd, some out of politeness, others clearly encouraged by too much drink.

“I’ve always found this part to be over played.” The woman murmured, leaning down enough for the warmth of her breath to trail over my ear, sending an unpleasant shiver down my spine, but I responded with a knowing glance.

“What? You don’t enjoy hearing various members of the ruling class pretend to fawn over each other out of civic duty?” Her shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle.

“Nor do I enjoy the painfully inadequate attempt at humility that follows.” She added, nearly groaning.

“But we shall clap when appropriate and cheer when it ends all the same.” I sighed, happily paying no attention to the introductory speech of whatever over-glorified parliament member had been chosen to parade before the others. It wasn’t until feeling the woman’s hand tug softly against my arm that I noticed her turn toward one of the grand staircases as the rest of the audience had just begun to applaud.

“Come with me.” She murmured, voice rich with what would, to most any other in the room, have been an intoxicating mixture of danger and confidence.

“What?” I couldn’t silence the depth of confusion, nor could I still those first few steps as she guided me forward. “You… uh-” Her eyes lit at my stammered attempts at speech, thrilling as my mind struggled to make sense of unspoken implications, and by then it was too late.

“You’re…” She merely answered my final attempt to grasp some understanding of what was happening with a broad smile, and it was all I could do to keep from breaking into a cold sweat as that earlier panic returned in force, but she’d already tread up that first step. There was no way I could escape this without causing a scene, though I didn’t doubt that some manner of a scene was precisely what she wanted. I’d shared empty words with enough of those around us to quickly be known as the unimpressive daughter of a senator from an unimpressive world, and what better way to stir some sense of self-entitled rivalry than to find oneself overlooked in favor of such an unimportant person as me? Those individuals were sure to go far beyond reasonable contributions in hopes of gaining the favor of the methodical woman leading me toward the focal point of this grand theater of insincerity.

With a smile far too charming for the charade she was clearly playing, the woman paused mere meters from the podium to offer me a final bow, warm hand slipping around mine to bring my fingers to her lips for a parting kiss, and I didn’t doubt how profoundly my cheeks darkened in a violent blush as she turned to the face the rest of the room. There was no way to escape amidst the countless eyes gazing and glaring and sneering up at me from below. I could risk no wrong move like this. I had no choice but to embody the smug aristocrat I’d striven all night to portray, at least until the speech ended and I might find myself overlooked in favor of those known to harbor far more wealth than one of my standing.

“My deepest gratitude to our lovely host!” She started, rich voice booming clearly through the room. “Both for his kind words and for the use of this gorgeous estate!” She took a half step back to look toward the man whose earlier speech I’d all but completely ignored, drawing her hands together to lead the crowd in another round of applause. “And, of course, to you!” She continued, arms sweeping out to motion to all those standing before her. “Friends, business partners, many a bit of both, and all irreplaceable to the overall success of this Alliance.” Another raucous cheer boomed within the towering walls.

“Let’s waste no time stepping around the reason for this albeit enjoyable party. I handpicked each and every one of you for one reason.” My heart dropped, body going painfully still as my eyes darted to the woman standing mere feet away from me. “I know you all to harbor the same profound loyalty as I do, and that loyalty calls on us to do all we can to put an end to this farce of a war!” I didn’t hear the roar of approval as ice danced beneath my skin in waves of frenzied dread. “We know that is a feat that cannot be bought with empty wishes and vague dreams.” ‘Handpicked’… That’s why she approached me…

“If you want a thing done, you must pay for it, be that with credits or time or blood – we all must sacrifice to lead our people to victory.” She knew I didn’t belong here and merely sought not to let me out of her sight as she gleaned what knowledge she could from me. “Many of you know my story, but for those that don’t, you may find yourself asking what I know of sacrifice to find myself justified in demanding it from all of you.”

There wasn’t time for her to say more, nor for me to fall further into that consuming panic of prey freshly caught in the jowls of some great beast. Before her voice faded from the far corners of the room, the world erupted in white. I couldn’t understand why I was no longer staring at the woman’s back; why distant screams sounded so strangely muted while my own breaths rang clearly beneath a deafening ringing; why I could feel the vibration of rushed footsteps reverberating against my cheek even as I watched my own hand struggling to push against the floor beneath me that I might force myself back to my feet.

That confusion lingered even as a shock-induced acceptance left those unknowns feeling far less important than they deserved, flittering awareness straining instead to merely react; to survive. My vision blurred as I fought to take in what was happening around me, broken thoughts reaching for some hint as to what I should do.

Smoke billowed from behind us, remnants of the shattered wall strewn over the floor in smoldering shards. Another might have balked at the bodies cast about the platform that once lined the speaker in some grand show of empowerment, many of which lay lifeless, illustrating the power of the blast in the form of ruined and lost limbs, blackened cloth atop blackened flesh burned too deeply to bleed, while others were far from still, motions just as desperate as their choked cries as they scrambled to haul themselves clear of the flames.

My hand slipped just as it had nearly gained purchase, dropping me harshly back to the hardwood beneath me. There was no thought beyond acknowledging that blood slickened the time-worn surface, nor was there any hope of discerning if it was my own blood or someone else’s. I merely felt the need to try once more to stand, muscles trembling in that vain, driving instinct to flee absent any hope for logic.

Vaguely, I watched several people rush the podium, recognized the orderly shouting so ingrained in medics and soldiers roaring orders between each other as they tended the orphan-turned-war leader who’d so easily ensnared me in her trap. I think one turned toward me but couldn’t make out their voices as reality flickered around me with a dizzying delay despite how I strained to drag myself back toward consciousness.

I barely noted the medic or soldier or whoever it was quickly tread away from mob, steps oddly booming and distant all at once even after he stopped to kneel beside me. If he spoke, I couldn’t make out his voice among the discordant chorus of confusion and panic, but I felt the sharp stab of needles piercing my neck before my mind sank away from that unapologetic chaos into a far more frightening darkness.

Next Chapter

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @kixs-husband @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings @manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base @daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan @drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy @mooncommlink @isthereanechoinhere96 @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh @blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep @amorfista @wanderneverlost @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil @roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89

[nekatto]

Given that this is my first adoption advert, I decided to go with something basic… Basic white girl basic.

Without further ado, I present you the MeowBucks baristas: Madeleine, Mary Jane, Fontina the Big Cheese, My Little Pierogi, Gruyère, Bordeaux, and Artemis.

Accepting applications from residents of South Carolina and neighboring states only.

Bios for each cat as well as a link to the adoption form are under the cut.

logo (c) wafflestash on Etsy, used here with their written permission.

If you can’t adopt, but would like to support us, I have a cashapp ($kpao69) and PayPal (k-pao@outlook.com). I’m an independent foster and all food, litter, and vetting is paid for out of pocket. Any help is appreciated.

ADOPTION APPLICATION:

Adoption fee is $85

MADELEINE || SPAYED FEMALE

10/10 but she bamboozled me.

The one who started it all. I was walking my dog when this sweet mama approached me and meowed sadly at me. From that moment on, she had me hook, line, and sinker, and I ended up returning to the spot I met her and started feeding her, quickly gaining her trust and bringing her inside… Along with her seven relatives she had hidden in the bushes.

Despite being the grandma of the family, I believe she’s still a fairly young cat, possibly around three years old or so. Since her spay surgery, it’s almost like she’s trying to make up for the kittenhood she never got to have. She loves nothing more than batting toy mice across the floor and playing chase with her granddaughter Pierogi. When not zooming around, Madds is quite the cuddle bug and loves a warm lap to lay in.

MARY JANE | SPAYED FEMALE, ~3 yrs old

Mother of Fontina, Gruyère, and Pierogi. Now that her kittens are grown, Mary Jane is beyond done with wild kitten antics and looking for some place calm and quiet to settle down.

All in all a pretty chill cat, though not particularly social. Out of her relatives, she most prefers to spend time with her daughter Gruyère.

FONTINA THE BIG CHEESE | NEUTERED MALE, ~1 yr old

They say the key to a man’s heart is food, and that’s doubly true for Fontina! While he can be shy at times, add food to equation and he’s putty in your hands.

He’ll do just about anything for food and so far has even trained himself to go inside his carrier on command. Would make an excellent trick training candidate.

Ideally would prefer a home with his best friend and wrestling buddy, Bordeaux.

**Fontina has displayed a propensity for eating non-food items. Please be mindful of this and take appropriate precautions.

MY LITTLE PIEROGI | SPAYED FEMALE, ~1 yr old

When she first came here, Pierogi was a bit shaken by the overnight transition from living outside to living in a home and spent her first few days inside hiding. But now she’s come out of her shell and blossomed into the sweetest little girl, albeit still on the shy side. Loves churu, head-butting feet, and playing with wand toys.

**tentative. if no applications look promising I miiiight end up keeping her.

GRUYÈRE | SPAYED FEMALE, ~1 yr old

No, you’re not seeing double, though very different in personality, Fontina and Gruyère are our loveable void twins!

The princess of the group. Gruyère demands you provide her with your undivided attention at all times… or else.

Out of her siblings, she has the closest relationship with her mother, Mary Jane, and the mother-daughter pair can often be found grooming one another.

**though she’s never broken skin, Gruyère can be mouthy, and we'd recommend applying for a different cat if you have young children or elderly people in your home.

BORDEAUX | NEUTERED MALE, ~1 yr old

Sweet little Bordeaux had a very rough start to life. At just a few weeks old, Bordeaux lost both of his siblings and was briefly separated from his mom during a particularly nasty winter rainstorm. It was only through a stroke of luck (and his cries) he was found before it was too late.

But none of that has dampened his spirit! As you can undoubtedly see, Bordeaux is a silly young man who loves having fun.

Without fail, he turns everything into a game. You thought you were going to mop the floor? Nope! Time to play wrestle the mop away from the kitten for the thousandth time!

10/10 but you’ll never get anything done with home around. But with a kitten this cute, who can stay mad?

When he’s not being a menace to society, he can be found palling around with his best friend and brother from another mother, Fontina.

ARTEMIS | NEUTERED MALE, ~2.5 YRS OLD

The odd one out of the bunch. I’m unsure how, or even if, he’s related to the rest of the colony. All we know is that he was buddies with the other adult male of the group, Apollo, and they could often be found huddled up together for warmth.

Artemis is a sweet boy who wants very much to be someone’s one and only. Always the first to greet me when I come in. And don’t think he’s content with a simple pat on the head. He DEMANDS all the love and snuggles. Like, I’ll sit down to relax and next thing I know he’s climbing up on my shoulder and nuzzling me.

*would prefer a home with no other cats.

**Apollo will be going up for adoption separately as he needs to have a specialist vet preform his neuter due to some neurological issues.

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 1

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Summary: In an attempt to escape his office and the mutterings of the war occurring an ocean away, Rosie Rosenthal hails a cab and finds himself in a dingy jazz club in downtown New York. Never did he think he'd find himself hopelessly enchanted by the jazz singer with the curly hair and white fur coat but he here he is following her outside, his legs moving on their own accord. Maybe he would see her again? Maybe he would ask her for a dance? Maybe she'd write a song for him?

Part two: Here

Author's Note: I've been hooked line and sinker with all these MOTA men and have felt the need to join the fray and write my own fic so here it is - hope ya'll enjoy x

September 5th, 1941

The dull purple glow of the club made the red lipstick placed carefully on her lips shine as she crooned into the microphone.  Many blocks away from her silver spooned upper east side apartment she knew if anyone saw her stood upon that stage swaying her hips to the music, she would never escape the judgemental gazes of the Jewish community. Batya Bernstein, twenty-one, unmarried and swaying precariously in a tight little black dress as she sang through a haze of cigarette smoke. The vague taste of a vodka soda still remained on her tongue; the drink adding to the delightful haze of her evening. 

This was downtown New York – nobody knew who she was here. 

Walking on a tightrope between never ending shame and the thrill of anonymity, Batya continued her swan song. The warmth of admiration caressed her skin like a summers ray; here she was loved and cherished for the gifts she possessed. Here she was merely a woman with an enchanting voice, not the daughter of the famous jeweller Harvey Bernstein. 

Harvey Bernstein. The prized and beloved chairman of the Park Avenue synagogue. The famed owner of Bernstein Jewels. Her father. She often wondered how a man like him could have a daughter like her. It must’ve felt rather shameful. His lack of a son and his only daughter being what many in the community dubbed as ‘wild.’ The park-avenue princess had refused every proposal he had sent her way. The only reason she had not been completely dismissed within the community was due to her quick wit, the love the rabbi had for her and the fact that her father had been the one to finance the new children’s school adjacent to the synagogue. For all her faults he did love her so, his secret Shanda singer of a daughter. 

She could imagine her papa’s face if he caught here tonight: his already greying hair would surely turn completely white at the sight of many men enthusiastically clapping along to the tune of her passionate lyrics. Her songs of melancholy and sadness set to a happy tune subdued her silent feelings of shame. Here, she was not Batya rather Bibi: the jazz singer who would frequent this club every second Saturday Night. As soon as Shabbos had come and gone, she’d greet her beloved audience with a flutter of her fingers, sing for twenty -five minutes, polish off two vodka sodas and leave before she became too memorable. 

But this night was different. 

This night she was going to be remembered. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way her lips graced the metal expanse of her microphone. How her hair began to fall out of its silken scarf prison as she sang, a rich brown curl falling in front of her face. It was if he was cast under a spell, the dulcet tones of her voice dragging him under the surface and into the smoken depths of her influence. He wasn’t meant to be here. His need to escape the overpowering mutterings of his office had caused him to lose all rational thought, call a cab, and to command the driver to take him to the best jazz club he knew. 

That’s how he ended up here.

Watching her.

He knew her from somewhere. Couldn’t tell if she resembled a girl on a war-bond poster or in a movie he had watched at some point but somehow and somewhere he had seen her before. The familiar shape of her nose, her deep brown eyes, the way she smiled as the audience applauded. He didn’t know what overcame him, a force coercing him to stand from the rickety chair at the back of the room and to follow her bewitching figure out of the club’s back door. A fur coat had been placed on her shoulders; the white material glistened in the evening moonlight. He rushed out towards her, his feet splashing against the puddled gravel of the club’s back alley. 

Her figure froze, her fur-draped shoulders tensing as she turned to face him. Her dark eyes almost glowed as she gazed upon him, a perfectly shaped eyebrow moving upwards as she took him in. His feet shifted from side to side, a nervous grin on his lips as he looked upon her. He was a never a nervous man. He had no idea why he was acting so strange; he blamed the scotch he had sipped as he watched her sing, and the empty stomach he possessed due to his rush here from work. She smirked at him. “Can I help you?” Her voice echoed through the darkened alley, the same rich tone gracing his ears as she spoke. He coughed awkwardly. A futile attempt to pull himself together with a rough hand combed through his curls does nothing to cool the slight burning of his ears. She watched the movement with a curious look upon her face: as if she was waiting for him to scare and run off like a deer in headlights. She looked amused. He coughed once more. He wasn’t the running type.

‘I..’ He began, silently cursing himself for stammering so foolishly. He was a lawyer. His mother’s pride and joy. His ma’s favourite topic over the Shabbos dinner table: boasting to her friends about how his eloquent way of speaking could convince any judge. Why he was struck silent in the presence of this woman he knew not, his lips dry as he tried to throw a sentence together. ‘I enjoyed your show.’ The eyebrow remained raised. A grin broke out upon her face, he didn’t think he had ever seen something so bright. 

Her gaze drank him in like a cool drink on a hot summer’s day. Heat flushing upon his ears as he waited for her to reply. Her mouth opened as she attempted to speak, her dark curls fluttering slightly in the breeze. He couldn’t hear what she had said in reply, the rich tone of her voice drowned out in favour of the sound of a yellow cab screeching to a halt on the pavement next to them. Her hands tightened across her coat; he spotted red nail polish painted carefully upon her fingers. It reminded him of her lipstick. Red suited her. She smiled once more, her body gliding past his own as she entered the back seat of the cab. His eyes followed her powerlessly, his hand itching to reach out and stop her. To touch her red-nailed fingers and ask for a dance.

His eyes remained on her until the cab drove away, the white coat dazzling through the rear end window of the vehicle. He never heard her reply, but he had an inkling he’d see her again. 

She refused to look back as she drove away. The urge to gaze upon him once more burned through her like an inferno as she sat comfortably on the cab’s black leather seats. His eyes had been so blue. A crystalline colour that made her skin flush when he stared at her, his full attention on her figure. She didn’t get his name, but Batya had a feeling she’d see him again.

And even if she didn’t all would not be lost. 

After all, ‘Bibi and her blue-eyed baby’ sounded like a perfect addition to her Saturday Night set list. 

Word count: 1231

Yiddish dictionary: • 'Shanda' - shame, can be used in reference to a person who makes their family feel shame • 'Shabbos' - the sabbath.

Author's Note part 2: Thank you for reading! I'm really excited to share this with you guys - been a while since I've written something so I hope you liked it, next part I think will be out in the next few days x [if you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments]

[secondratefiction]

Lastly, a specific scenario I can't get out of my mind, maybe you have ideas how he would be/react/handle it/his thoughts:

He is engaged for a political marriage, but had either not met his future bride or does not like her/ there is just no spark.

Then, for example on the quest, he meets Y/n & (instantly or slowly, affection mistaken for annoyance, whatever) falls for her, hard.

Thank you for all the prompts you sent in love! Clearly we're going out of order here, but this is the one that got ahold of my brain first.

-

Initially, Fili is all good with the arrangement - Thorin doesn't have an heir, so he's the next in line, and even if it's not exactly what he would have wanted, he can understand why they're pursuing a political marriage...

He meets the woman a couple of times, daughter of a high ranking and well off dwarf, a princess in her own right... and unfortunately, thoroughly unremarkable...

It was excruciating even trying to pull a conversation out of the poor girl... and Fili felt awful about the whole thing, but he immediately regretted this arrangement.

If there was any way that Thorin would let him bow out of this, Fili would have jumped on it like his life depended on it.

Fortunately however, there were to be no marriage arrangements made until after the matter of Erebor was settled and Thorin was officially sitting on the throne Fili would be in line for.

He felt no small sense of relief at this... and there were many a late night talks with his brother about how to get out of this one

Thorin over heard them once. It was awful, the lecture went on for over an hour, and Fili came out the other side feeling like a small child allover again.

And then... blessing and a curse... that is where you come in...

It was an easy job to make a little extra money before they left to retake the mountain, Fili and Kili were just escorting a merchaint from the Blue Mountains to Bree - it was even on the way, no reason for any one to object.

Fili did not believe in love at first sight, he was raised to think and act more practically. But the first time he saw you, sitting on top of the wagon full of supplies your father had hired them to escort-

He felt exactly like he'd been punched stright in the gut, the wind and everything else getting knocked out of him in one blow. Followed by a tight clenching in his chest that sched more than most anything he'd ever had to deal with

Fili was sold, hook, line, and sinker, and he had no idea what he was going to do.

The next week on the road to Bree seemed to fly by, there weren't nearly enough hours in the day for him to be able to talk with you, learn everything he could about you.

While he probably should have been trying, there was absolutly no way Fili would have been able to stop himself from falling even harder for you.

By the time your paths parted in Bree, it created a pain in Fili's chest to leave you that he was fairly certain was going to eat him alive.

Against his better judgement, Fili stops to braid your hair before he and his brother leave for the Shire. And, even knowing he's going to face unimaginable teasing from his brother for it, Fili can't stop himself from slipping a few of his own beads on the ends of your braids as he finish's them.

He dreams of the soft, sweet kiss you gave him in parting on the many long, cold nights headed for the Lonely Mountain

Once this is all said and done, he'll find a way to convince his uncle, he's sure of it. And more than that, Fili is sure you're worth the wait, and whatever fight he's going to have to put up to keep you.