#terrible that she should be leaving us her legacy so soon but we will celebrate it nonetheless 🩵💜

[atompalace-official]

in memory of and with gratitude to Rachael Lillis - first voice actor of Misty and Jessie among other characters in the Pokémon anime, who passed away at just 46

[yayeetsonny]

Always tell the truth~ USWNT x Baby Reader

A/N: Hi ya’ll, yes I’m still alive, I’m sorry I went MIA for Idk how many months. My life just got turned upside down and I got a job and I’ve just been so busy. But I’m officially back and will be getting to all the requests I’ve received soon. This wasn’t a request but I got this idea from another fic I read so I hope you enjoy - N

Y/N PRO//

At 18 years old I’ve got so many activities and responsibilities sometimes I wonder how I’m still functioning. I’m a senior in high school, an honor student, a theatre geek and most of all I’m a pro soccer player for the United States Women’s National team. Its amazing, I’m living out my dream of playing the greatest game alongside some of my idols and we’re like one big, goofy dysfunctional family. My parents, while they love me and support me, aren’t around much and aren’t the most attentive. But my teammates make up for it by acting like overprotective, hovering moms whenever we’re together. 

I’d just gotten to the facility where we were gathering for our first team training of this camp. I was extremely excited to see my teammates. 

 I walked into the meeting room quietly and I saw everyone just talking among themselves; they had yet to notice me, so I took full advantage of this. I walked up behind Mal, made a shh gesture to Alex who made eye contact with me and took a deep breath, then I let out an ear piercing yell. Mal and anyone else who hadn’t seen me jumped 10 feet in the air. Poor Mal was in a heap on the floor, clutching her chest while the others were laughing and trying to compose themselves.

“What the- Y/N!”

“That’s me!”

“Hey kiddo! Quite the entrance you made there.”

“I know, I apologize I just couldn’t resist. Sorry Mal.”

I helped her off the floor and wrapped her in a hug.

“You good?” I giggled

“Yeah, you just gave me a heart attack, no big.” She giggled back

I made my rounds, gave and received hugs and hellos and then I went to sit with everyone for the start of the meeting. I rolled up the sleeves of my hoodie and got comfortable since these meetings tend to be long. Alex was on one side of me and Mal was on the other. I didn’t notice the giant bruise on my arm but Alex did.

“Y/N? Where’d you get that bruise?”

“Bruise? What are you talking about?” I say looking at her like she had grown two heads.

“That nasty looking one, where’d you get it?” She said pointing at my arm but not breaking eye contact with me.

I looked at the bruise for a minute, studying it, trying to figure out where it came from. I genuinely couldn’t remember hurting myself or hitting my arm hard enough to leave a bruise

“Oh, uh I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay… are you sure you don’t know where it’s from?

“Yes I’m sure.”

“Okay well if it starts to hurt or gets worse for whatever reason let me know and I’ll get some cream for it.”

I could tell Alex didn’t believe the whole “I don’t know” response but its the truth and she let it drop anyways so whatever. 

Mal just looked at me curiously

“What was that about?” She whispered

“Oh nothing, Alex is just being overprotective as usual.” I whispered back

The meeting was long as I predicted but when it was finally over we were sent to change for practice. On the way there I let Mal hop on my back, once she was on and comfortable she yelled 

“Onward trusty steed!”

“Your wish is my command!” I said as we both giggled

I carried her all the way there and then gently set her down and went to get changed. 

I was talking to Christen whose locker happened to be next to mine and she was telling me about her dogs and how much she misses them, I was beginning to tell her about my dog and how much I miss him when I saw her staring at my arm.

“Hello? Earth to Christen?”

I waved my hand in front of her face trying to get her attention and after a minute it worked.

“Huh? Oh sorry, I don’t mean to stare, it’s just that bruise on your arm looks quite painful, what happened?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I can’t seem to remember.” I said shrugging

“You don’t remember? Are you sure?” She said looking at the bruise and back at me worriedly

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

I could tell she too didn’t believe me but I’m not sure what else to say, I can’t just make up some story about what happened. Okay well I could but that would be lying and I’ve always been a terrible liar.

I decided to just forget about those two interactions for the time being and focus on giving my all this camp so that the coaches know I can be trusted to step up when they need me to. 

We started out with some warm ups, then did some sprints, passing drills, shooting drills, set piece work, PK practice and to wrap it up like always we had a scrimmage. My team consisted of, Chris, Alyssa, Crystal, Sam and myself, the other team consisted of Alex, Tobin, Ashlyn, Ali and Lindsey. 

The scrimmage was pretty normal, a few goals for each side my team unfortunately coming up short by one goal, as the other team celebrated my teammates and I pretended to be upset and pouted about the loss. 

“Oh cheer up guys, you’ll get us next time… maybe.” Ash said giggling

“Yeah, yeah. You guys only won because I got distracted by a butterfly on that last play.” Sam said 

Everyone just stared at her blankly

“What? It was really pretty! Didn’t you guys see it?”

We all just started cracking up at that. I was able to pull myself together enough to ask the question everyone was thinking

“You-you really got distracted by a butterfly during the game Sammy?”

“Yes, and?”

“It’s just as funny hearing it a second time” I said before laughing again 

“You guys are mean.” She pouted

“You love us.” Ali said, reaching up and ruffling Sam’s hair. 

After practice the team all got on the bus and went back to the hotel we were staying at. Vlatko booked out a whole floor just for us since he knows how loud we can be and didn’t want to deal with angry neighbors. Not again, after last time. This time I’d be rooming with Ali, we didn’t get put together often but I always enjoy when we do. It helps us bond and I’m always learning new things about her. 

I was going to meet them there later however because I had to go see my parents at their request, my dad said something about it being urgent. I got in a team van and went to see them.

After several hours I was finally able to go back to the hotel and be there for the rest of the night. My parent’s seem to have had a change of heart about my career choice, they went on and on about the sudden need for me to join the family business and how my only goal in life should now be to live up to their legacy. I hated every minute of it, I was so ready to get Into my comfortable clothes and head to get something to eat. When I got to the room I’d be sharing with Ali I opened the door to an empty room. She must be with Ash. I thought.

 I decided to get changed and see if I could find her. As I was changing I didn’t hear the door open and only knew my roommate had arrived when I heard a gasp

“Y/N… What happened babe?”

“Ali, Hi. What do you mean? Nothing’s happened.”

“ So that big bruise on your arm, the one on your shoulder and the one going all the way down your spine aren’t anything?” 

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You obviously know what I’m talking about.”

“No I don’t, I only knew about the one on my arm, after Alex pointed it out. Otherwise I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the mirror in the bathroom, spun me around and said 

“Those bruises, Y/N, where’d you get them?” 

“Oh… I don’t know.” 

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t, that’s the truth.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and besides, we are soccer players, I probably just got them in practice.”

“Y/N… I’ll ask again, where are those bruises from?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine then, don’t believe me. First Alex, then Christen and now you. This is just great, my teammates think I’m a liar. Well I’m not and I’m telling you the truth.”

I brushed by her and stormed out of the room, now determined to avoid my teammates so they’d stop asking questions and questioning my honesty.

I’m not a liar. I don’t know where I got the bruises, I don’t know why they won’t believe me.

A/N: Okayyyy... sorry for the sort of cliff hanger? I can’t type anymore for now because my wrists hurt too bad. (Work messed them up lol) so this’ll be a two part imagine, sorry!- N

Not really edited

[avatarstories]

izumi’s birthday part three:  sources of wisdom

The next morning, breakfast with the family is awkward. Izumi was a few moments late, having had to stop by the royal seamstress to have the last adjustments fitted for party outfit finished. By the time she arrived at breakfast, everyone was seated, and the only empty chair was between her father and Bumi. Bumi’s stony expression made her want to just be swallowed up by the floor. Maybe she could go find Druk and convince him to eat her. She gives Bumi a sad smile, and he rolls his eyes with a noticeable exhale. Izumi takes her seat quietly trying her hardest to give him as much space as possible. 

“Are we going to talk about how Izumi and Bumi are making the air in the room extremely uncomfortable?” Kya says. “Lover’s quarrel?” she jokes. 

“Fuck off, Kya” Bumi mutters, looking down at the table in front of him. Kya is across from him and leans in trying to get his attention. 

“Excuse me?” she says with a joking lilt in her voice. 

Bumi doesn’t say anything. Instead, he throws his tea at Kya and storms out of the dining room. Everyone is silent but all eyes are on Izumi. Having managed to stop the tea from hitting her, Kya bends it back into a cup. 

“Well, Happy Birthday, Izumi! What an exciting way to start the day,” Kya deadpans. Zuko looks at Izumi with a concerned expression. Azula looks ready to go to murder. Toph and Lin have their eyebrows raised and are taking a big sips of their mango juices. Tenzin hangs his head and focuses intently at his rice. Izumi notices Katara giving Aang a look that says go after him and when he doesn’t move she shakes her head. 

“This looks like a job for a wise old man like me,” Iroh says, pushing his chair back so that he can stand up. 

“General Iroh, it’s really ok, Aang can take care of it,” Katara says. 

“Uh, I kinda agree with General Iroh,” Aang replies sheepishly. 

If looks could kill, the ice in Katara’s eyes would have Aang pinned to the wall. “You are unbelievable,” she says quietly, though the anger and disappointment in her tone are unmistakable. She follows Bumi out the door 

“Looks like Twinkletoes is in the polar bear doghouse,” Toph says. Aang groans and then goes after Katara and Bumi.

“Care to enlighten us, Izumi?” Azula asks. 

“Not really,” she mutters. “I’m going to the training yard,” she announces quietly, and she walks out the door. 

Azula looks between Zuko and Iroh “I would go after her, but I was planning to go boss some staff around to make sure her party is perfect, which I think now needs to be even more perfect,” she says. 

“I will see what is bothering our dear Izumi,” Iroh says pushing out his chair once again. He and Azula leave the room. 

“Man,” Lin says “I thought mom and I would be the ones to start drama.” At that, Sokka laughs so hard he snorts, and Suki punches him in the side for it. ————————————————————————————————— 

Izumi is moving through advanced katas when Iroh finds her.

“I have told you before, forms practiced in anger are like tea steeped in unclean water, dear Izumi.” 

She finishes the form sending an arc of a flame towards the stone wall with an audibly annoyed exhale. 

“Now, are you going to tell me what is wrong or should I guess? Kya suggested a -” 

“IM NOT DATING BUMI! CAN EVERYONE STOP THINKING THAT!” 

Iroh chuckles. “Everyone used to think the same of your father and Katara when they were yours and Bumi’s ages. When people share a special bond others cannot help but wonder. But of course I did not come here to talk about your father’s youthful affections. It appears you and Bumi are experiencing a strain. Care to inform your old grandfather so he can help you?” 

“We had a misunderstanding.” 

“I know that I am old, Izumi, but I am not blind.” 

“Bumi was telling me about some issues in their family between him and his dad, and I basically told him that he should be lucky not to have the weight of a legacy on his shoulders.” 

“So your problem stems from your fear of your future,” Iroh affirms. “Rightfully so on an occasion as momentous as your 17th birthday, but Izumi, you are a kind, gentle, and fair minded young woman, and your father is a picture of health, what has brought about this anxiety?” 

Izumi crosses her arms and says nothing. 

“Izumi?” 

“I overheard some of the noblewomen talking about a curse on the Fire Ladies.” 

“And what is this curse?” 

“That Fire Ladies who die in childbirth give rise to evil Fire Lords. The spirits make them pay the ultimate price for what they bring into the world.”

Iroh takes in her words. “And so you have applied this to your own birth?” Izumi nods.

“You’re young yet Izumi, but I think you will find that destiny is what you make of it,” he says. “You and your father are the descendants of Sozin and Azulon, but you’re also the descendants of Avatar Roku on your grandmother’s side. There’s light and dark in you, and you will have to chose what nature you will allow to flourish. But knowing you, I would largely place my bets on the light side. And,” he takes a pause, “you can always seek to redeem yourself for your faults. I tried to break through the walls of Ba Sing Se, and then I took it back from the Fire Nation. Your father chased Aang halfway across the world, and now they are best friends. Azula was one of the most terrifying people in existence -” 

“She still is.” 

He chuckles. “Yes, she still is. But the original fire bending masters deemed her worthy of regaining her power when she lost it and repented, and they even gifted her a dragon egg as they did to your father,” he explains. 

“Your father’s legacy was to end a war. Yours will be the equally important one of maintaining peace,” Iroh says. “Now, maybe you should go practice that and make your amends with Master Bumi. I am off to make some tea.” 

“What if he won’t speak to me,” she asks. 

“Well then your partner dance in front of the court later on at your party will be terribly uncomfortable!” he says walking back inside. ——————————————————————————————————— Bumi does not really know where he is walking to, and he just follows the direction that instinct takes him. He can hear his parents behind him, but he does not stop. 

“Bumi please,” Katara calls. 

He groans and walks faster. In this instance, he was incredibly pleased with himself because he still remembers some of the secret passageways in the palace that Izumi had showed him as children when they would play hide and explode with Izumi’s Aunt Kiyi and Aunt Azula, so he ducked into one that he knew was coming and hears his parents run right passed. It was slightly dark inside, which made perfect sense considering that usually only firebenders used these hallways and had no need for any other light. 

Bumi went off memory and kept his right hand on the wall. If he had to figure this out like a maze in order to get out, that’s what he would do. After about ten minutes in the dark, he feels a variation in the stone that tells him he’s found a door. If he remembers correctly, this one will let him out by the portrait gallery. However, when he opens the door, he’s stopped by a piece of furniture. 

“Huh?” he hears someone ask, and soon the furniture is being shoved out of the way and the door opens and bright light blinds him, and Azula is standing in front of him.

She stares him up and down. “I would offer to help you but I will warn you first that if you ruin Izumi’s birthday, not even the fact that your father is the Avatar will save you from me.” 

Bumi remains frozen, unsure what to do. 

“Well don’t just sit there,” she says, raising a brow. He stumbles into what he realizes to be Azula’s office. 

“If you are avoiding your parents who ran after you when you caused quite the commotion at breakfast, then my office would definitely be the best place to hide. Push that back into place,” she commands gesturing to the small table she had just moved. 

Bumi has not spent much time alone with Azula. Whenever he would visit the Fire Nation, he and Izumi were attached at the hip. Every summer when Kya would go to the Southern Water Tribe and his dad and Tenzin would go to an Air Temple, Bumi would get dropped off in the Fire Nation for a few months of sword training with Master Piandao. After Piandao passed away, Zuko offered to continue training him since Sokka was busy trying to get Republic City up and running. In all that time, he’d never really gotten to know Azula. From what Izumi had told him, Azula was Zuko’s right hand. She lead his small council and sat in on meetings when he was away on diplomatic trips, which made her an extremely powerful person. 

He looks around her office. It’s clean and tidy. There is a small ink portrait of Izumi on the wall to the right of Azula's desk, and vases of Fire Lilies around the room. 

Azula studies him while he looks around the room. “Should I ask what’s bothering you or should we pretend this exchange never happened?”

“Whatever you prefer,” he replies. 

“I prefer to be well informed.” 

“Izumi and I had a fight.” 

“I gleaned that,” she says flatly. There’s a pause. “Izumi hates celebrating her birthday. She tells us every year it makes her feel guilty, but the 17th birthday of the Heir Apparent is a rite of passage in the Fire Nation.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Traditionally, it’s when the Crown Prince, or in Izumi’s case, Princess, starts sitting on the small council and has to take up a stronger political role than just kissing babies and doing well in school… it’s seen as the last day of childhood.”  

Oh Bumi thinks. “That’s why she’s so stressed.” 

“Most likely a factor.” 

“She never mentioned it.” 

“Well, you know Izumi. Unless it’s Zuko, getting her to tell you what’s wrong is like pulling teeth. She is like you in that regard.” Bumi looks puzzled. “I read people very well,” she says in reply to his reaction. There’s a pause as she regards him. “I do not imagine it is easy to be a non-bender in a family like yours.” 

“Man, you really don’t hold back.” 

She offers him a half smile. “I understand the fear of being a disappointment too. When I was 12 I was so scared of failure and what would happen if I disappointed my father. It was not even two years by the time I self destructed.” 

“I’m not going to self destruct,” he mutters. 

“Then you might need some help carrying that weight on your shoulders around.” 

He is quiet for a minute. “What if there’s no one to help me?” 

 She glances down at a small ink drawing of her mother, Zuko, and herself  that sits on her desk. “From my experience,  you can often find help in very unexpected places, but you have to be open to being helped.” 

AN: you cannot convince me Azula didn’t get a redemption arc and a lot of healing and become a strange source of wisdom. you just can’t. azula redemptions are a peak of feminist literature. 

I imagine redeemed Azula serves Zuko in a position similar to the hand of the king from GoT. 

[storiesbyjes2g]

Genetics & Story Summary

Genetics

Even though we all know Melany looks nothing like Kameron, she doesn’t look exactly like Brytani either. Like, most of the time, I don’t feel like I’m looking at a younger Brytani. But they look so much alike I can’t tell what the differences are. Last night I decided to find out how they are different. I found Brytani in another save and aged her down. I aged Kameron down and took off his beard and skin details so we can really see him. I also took away Mel’s details even though they don’t change her much. I made a picture with them all side-by-side to compare.

How about I never really realized Melany had a dimpled chin! And, how cool is it to learn Kameron gave it to her! (I feel like she should write a song about him called Dimpled Chin lol) I’m guessing her cheeks come from him because Noemi also has high, cute chubby cheeks as well. Mel’s face seems to be a little longer than Brytani’s, also compliments of Kameron, but I knew that one already. There is something about their eyes though. I can’t really tell what it is, but they are not the same. Are Brytani’s wider or something?

As far as skin tone goes, Mel is right in the middle, a shade darker than Brytani and a shade lighter than Kameron. I still think it’s funny how EA measures what is light and dark, but we won’t get into that in this post...or maybe ever lol.

Story Summary

This may get long, so I’ll put it under the cut.

Recently I welcomed my new followers and told you about my story. I appreciate everyone who has hopped on for the ride! 😘 So many of you have joined in on this silly little legacy drama, and I don’t want anyone to be lost. I’m going to catch you up so you know who everyone is and what’s going on because I don’t expect you to go back to the beginning, although it doesn’t take very long. I did that a few months ago. It was fun!

Ok! So you’ve met Melany and her parents. Kameron started this whole thing as my guy to save Strangerville. Afterward, I figured I would continue playing with him and give him a much deserved good life. He had the world famous celebrity aspiration, so he started hanging out in DSV and rubbing shoulders with celebrities. That’s how he met Brytani Cho and thus creating our dear, sweet Melany. But, Brytani is not about that relationship life, and things fizzled after he attempted to propose to her.

It didn’t take long for her to leave. Bye Felicia.

Kameron and Melany left Strangerville for a new life in Oasis Springs. He joined the intelligence branch of the military and moved up the ranks. It was tough being a single dad, but he made it work.

Brytani was hyper-focused on her career and made very little time for Melany, and Kameron held that against her. Needless to say, their relationship was never the same, and co-parenting was no walk in the park. Melany, however, attempted to make the best of her mother’s visits, though she wished she visited more often.

Eventually Kameron moved on completely and began dating. He had a few flings and a few dates, but when he met Nadia, he was like a moth to flame.

They messed around a lot, and it didn’t take long for him to ask her to be his girlfriend. They dated for a while before he asked her to move in. He needed to see how things would work with her and Melany. It delighted Kameron to see how well they took to each other. I mean, Melany was an exceptional kid. Who wouldn’t love her? Nadia did and took her role in Kameron and Melany’s lives very seriously once she understood the family dynamics.

Nadia’s pregnancy and the engagement happened around the same time. They had a son named Nathaniel Courtney Pierson, whom they call Nate. Life was very busy with a new baby, new house, and new city (Willow Creek). Once life settled down a little, they were married in Sulani.

It should be noted that Melany began playing the violin at a young age. Kameron took her to El Selvadorada once, and it rained almost the whole time. She was going through a loud phase and picked up the violin; she loved it. She completed all 5 child aspirations which gave her a boost at learning adult skills. By the time she was a teenager, she had maxed the violin skill and had written her first song! She also started a SimTube channel. Between her two celebrity parents and the videos, she was a 4 star celebrity by her teen birthday.

Teen life for Melany was pretty average—aside from the celebrity madness. She had a group of friends she loved. She was on top of her studies and made A’s. She didn’t give her parents any trouble.The only complaint she has was with her mother. Brytani retired and came around more often, but still not often enough. By this time, Melany’s little sister, Noemi Amiah Pierson, was born, and she saw what she missed by not having two parents in the same house. Nadia was an excellent step-mother. Melany didn’t want for anything, and she loved and appreciated her. But she had a mother. Why couldn’t Brytani be like Nadia? Was something wrong with her? Did Brytani love her at all? She was secretly jealous of her young siblings, and those feelings ate away at her. She became withdrawn, cried a lot and made angry videos, but it didn’t help. Brytani was still a deadbeat mom. Melany expressed her frustrations once, but Brytani couldn’t make her feel better. She wasn’t the motherly type and thought Melany would be fine with Nadia not realizing the girl just needed her mom.

Things got slightly better in their relationship, but this would always be a thing between them. Even now, long after Brytani’s death, Melany still feels conflicted about their relationship.

The Piersons moved to Sulani. Melany aged up and went to Britechester University to study Fine Arts. She stayed in the dorms her first semester and had two roommates. That’s how she met her current best friend, Dr. Anissa Thurston. She studied biology and felt a connection with Melany immediately. Being a popular celebrity, Anissa knew everyone would be all over her and act weird. She just saw a fellow freshman nervous about being in a new place and hoping everything would be ok and made it her business to befriend Melany. Little did she know their shared Bailey Kay fandom would create a near indestructible bond.

Like any overprotective father, Kameron struggled with Melany going to college. He wanted her to stay at home for the first semester. And, as one could imagine, he was not ready for boys. Luckily, he made a friend in an elderly gentleman named Myron Churchill. He never had an older friend who could advise him from experience—a father figure. Mr. Churchill’s friendship became precious to him and helped a great deal.

Melany met Nick Wilkinson at a party. She felt uncomfortable about the outfit her friend made her wear on top of everyone looking at and whispering about her being a celebrity and all. Nick approached her and started a conversation. He made her feel better and was terribly cute. All they did was talk, but he definitely left an impression on her.

Brytani died, and Melany withdrew from school for the rest of the year. Nick called to see how she was and to express his condolences, and that’s how their friendship began. He was a huge movie buff and studying drama at Foxbury Institute to become an actor. He also was a huge nerd and avid gamer. Melany is also a gamer as Kameron was a gamer geek and raised her on video games and sci-fi. They were “friends” for a long time before he asked her out. After dancing around each other for so long, it didn’t take long for them to begin an official relationship.

They graduated, and Melany goes back home to Sulani to figure out the rest of her life. At this point she had written and licensed 7 songs and had a few small performances. She loved performing but wasn’t sure if she wanted to be a full blown artist like her idol, Bailey Kay. Also, up until this point she had only been a musician. Few know this, but Melany is also a singer. She keeps it private, but the girl is talented. Despite this talent, she never considered being a singer or writing lyrics to her songs. But sometimes she hears words in her head. They repeat themselves and won’t go away, so she began writing them down. After having this experience a few times, she felt her music life changing and needed professional advice and reached out to Bailey Kay (after much coaxing from friends and family) who gave her some wise words.

Eventually, Melany decided to live in Brytani’s mansion in Willow Creek which she inherited. The thought of living there used to give her pause, but she wanted to be closer to Nick and her friends because traveling from Sulani to San Myshuno and Del Sol Valley was getting to be too much. Besides, she was a grown woman now and needed to get on with her life. Also, she felt like she caused the problems Kameron and Nadia had briefly in their marriage. She invited Anissa to live there as her roommate because she didn’t want to live alone and wasn’t ready to have Nick move in yet. But, soon after, he approached her about the idea and she agreed it was an excellent idea.

That’s pretty much where we are now. Melany and Nick are living their best lives together. Nick is a dynamic actor and getting more popular by the day. Anissa finally got a job as a doctor and is looking forward to dating since getting over the breakup...that Melany caused. Yikes. We’ll hear from her about that soon, so I won’t steal her thunder, but I will say it almost ruined their friendship!

I hope this was helpful for the newcomers and nostalgic for the OGs. If you have questions along the way, just ask! 

[jimtheviking]

So now that it's been a while since the ST ended, I'm gonna talk about why, of all three movies, the only one that worked for me was TLJ, and why The Mandalorian, Rogue One, Rebels, and Clone Wars are the best bit of New EU out there.

Okay so, first off, the basic thesis of this is that, when Star Wars works, has always been a story about one thing, and one thing only: Hope. And when it hasn't worked, it's been about how Cool and Badass and Edgy and Dark things can be in the Galaxy Far, Far Away.

So, let's start with the beginning, shall we?

The Force Awakens is a bad remake of A New Hope. And I don't say that just because JJ Abrams can't write or direct for shit (he can't, btw, but I'll get into that later.) I say that because, well, it's true. It's almost a shot-for-shot remake of ANH, except that unlike ANH, there is no sense of hope in the entire movie. Rey, Finn, and Poe are thrown into a Terrible Situation and they never once have any display of fear or doubt. They're confident and plucky and ready to win the day. At every point, even their lowest, they're plucky and scrappy and fighty and are never allowed to feel anything. And that means they can't hope for better things, they can't fight for a better world, because to their characters the better world is already there. It's the world they're in, because they can get what they want through Pluck and Scrappiness and Fighting Spirit, and never have to worry that it won't be enough.

Don't get me wrong, TFA is, of the two JJ films, better by a mile. Mostly because it has a coherent plotline. But it's still not good. Even when Han is killed, there is no chance to mourn him. There is no "I just can't believe he's gone" moment. There's a duel and a celebration. Leia feels his death and that could have been interesting to explore, but nothing gets done with Rey or Finn. Rey attaches to Han as a father figure, but it was Finn whose character was hamstrung most by Han's death. Finn should have been mentored in the ways of Roguish War Heroing by Han, just as Luke would mentor Rey in Jedi-ing, and Leia mentored Poe in Leader-ing. That is how the new Trio was shaping up to relate to the Original Trio, and should have gone that way. But no, JJ had to kill Han off for absolutely no purpose.

And there was no purpose to Han's death. I will get to that in a minute.

When Obi-Wan died, he died knowing he was buying the Trio time and that his sacrifice would help the Rebellion destroy the Death Star and ultimately prevent future Alderaans from ever happening again (and it did!) Obi-Wan dies in A New Hope because he knows that, like Leia said, he was her only hope. The only hope for the Rebellion. For the Galaxy. And, right after Scarif, he was the only hope she had. But now? On the Death Star? Surrounded by Storm Troopers, facing down his old padawan, his brother, his best friend? Now there is A New Hope (see what they did there?) and it's in Luke and Han and Leia and he doesn't die in vain. He sacrifices himself and that lets hope live on.

When Han died, it was, thematically, the exact opposite of Obi-Wan's death. Because Han wasn't expecting to die. Han's whole walking to meet Ben thing was him expressing hope - hope that his son would return to him, that there was good left in him - and then he was killed. Hope gets you killed in this movie, and it doesn't help anyone do anything. It doesn't save uncounted billions. It doesn't stop an evil Empire from terrorising the Galaxy. It doesn't inspire other people. It just gets you a lightsaber to the belly and kicked into an abyss. Han's death served no purpose except to show that Ben was evil. As if massacring untold hundreds of civilians to find the location of Luke wasn't indication enough. We knew Ben was evil. It was the entire point of the character. Killing Han was just to reinforce that hope is foolish.

Luke, as well, was terribly served in TFA. Luke Skywalker, who triumphed over evil despite hovering so close to the edge of it time and again, who does the right thing all the time, who every chance he gets tries to help and save people? That Luke Skywalker? He just fucked off to who knows where. Gone. Entirely. No explanation. Luke, who constantly failed in his Jedi training, but never gave up hope that he could become a Jedi, like his father before him. Luke, who knew he wasn't ready to confront Vader on Bespin but hoped he could get there soon enough to save his friends. Luke, who knew that there was no way he would be leaving Jabba's palace without a fight but still had hope that the Hutt could be negotiated with. He just...gives up. No explanation or reason given. Just...goes.

And that is the most wildly, painfully out of character moment in the entire ST for me. Because Luke was always Hope in the OT, and in the Filoni shows, and having him become Hopeless and leave? An absolute affront to the character.

But I digress.

I won't get into what TLJ did right (almost everything re: Luke, Rey, Leia, and Poe, and that throne room fight especially) and wrong (the handling of Finn, Space Monaco) but suffice it to say that TLJ at least understood that Hope was what made Star Wars good. Because Luke's sacrifice at the end of it was done just like Obi-Wan's. Luke did what he did, knowing he would die, but also knowing that it would buy time for Leia to escape. So long as Rey could get to her in time. He had Hope in Rey, and he had Hope in his own actions, and that Hope was rewarded. Luke dies, and dies a hero, dies giving Hope to the Resistance, dies a meaningful death for a hero to die.

And then we get to TRoS.

Oh god TRoS.

So, you know how I said JJ can't write or direct for shit? Here's a great example. Because we had Rey, a Jedi now like Luke had been, and ready to discover what being a Jedi means to her, and how she fits in the wider, larger Galaxy as a nobody, as a regular person who somehow became Greater than she started. As someone who isn't from a line of Force Users or other Super Special People becoming a hero and finding her place. Rey, who began her story on a desert planet, hoping desperately to be a part of some bigger dynasty, not having any confidence in herself being Rey from Nowhere, finds out she IS Rey from Nowhere, Daughter of Nobody, but becomes a Jedi, a Protector of the Galaxy, an important person in her own right, the Saviour of the Resistance. And then we find out she's the granddaughter of one of the most powerful Force users ever. And she makes herself a part of the Super Special Force User Dynasty. Completely destroying any character growth from the previous movie, because it's no longer Rey succeeding on her own, it's Rey being a Dynastic Heir.

Rey begins on a desert planet, digging things out of the sand, and ends on a desert planet, burying things in the sand. Rey begins not knowing who she really is and desperately wanting to, and ends up finding out, rejecting it, and claiming some other random legacy. Rey is no longer Rey from Jakku, she's Rey Palpatine and she wants to be Rey Skywalker so she just...claims it. There was a chance for Rey to be a beacon of Hope for other people who aren't from Force user lineages. But no, she's the child of a clone of the Emperor and decides she's a Skywalker because of an unexplained phenomenon that linked her to Ben. So without the Super Special Lineage, what hope does anyone have of changing the world for the better? None.

And, back to character deaths, Leia and Ben dying were two of the most hopeless scenes in all Star Wars. Entirely without hope. Utterly.

Why?

Well, let's start with Leia. Apparently, in the novelizations, she'd been forcing herself to stay alive to run the Resistance because no-one else could (despite like, a massive increase in operations staff, and, you know, Poe having been Leia's protogée in her Leadership Crash Course) and had been hearing Luke tell her it's okay to just let go and become one with the Force (what??) And so when she does decide to do that, it's when she transfers her life-force to Ben, to redeem him (maybe? At that point Ben hadn't had his weird Harrison Ford dressed up in Han Solo's costume hallucination, and it's not really clear why she's doing this in the film) and thus have him the Galaxy. Okay, that could work, but then Ben dies. And then dies again. Twice. (Though, really, only once, because apparently he got caught on a rock and broke his ribs and twisted his ankle when he fell in the pit, but you only learn that in the novelization. But I digress.)

So Leia's sacrifice to redeem her son is ultimately futile, because Rey managed to kill Palps on her own anyway, with the help of all the Jedi in the Force, and Ben was mostly dead. Then Rey dies from the exertion of it all, and that would be a shitty enough ending, bleak and hopeless - the only way good triumphs is by destroying itself - but then Ben comes back! And saves Rey using the healing powers Obi-Wan Kenobi used on Luke in A New Hope and Rey used earlier in the movie! Leia's sacrifice was meaningful! It redeemed Ben, who saved someone's life!

And then he dies.

Which makes Leia's death pointless again. Because she used the last of her life force to make her son Good, and then he just...dies.

And Ben's death is Hopeless in and of itself too. I'm not a Reylo fan - that dynamic just does not do it for me, generally, though there are some few well-written execptions - but how do you begin to say "The Power of Love can triumph over everything, even death!" and then kill off the person who did that? Like...that just says that Love and Sacrifice for others is pointless. That Hope is pointless. Because with Ben dying, Leia's sacrifice means nothing, and his own death means nothing because Dying Saving Someone You Love is just Suicide with Extra Steps if there's no Hope of Survival to it. The tragedy happens when a character dies hoping they can still make it back to the person they love. Ben, on the other hand, just...dies. The movie tells us that he's not worth surviving this, but Rey is. And so what, exactly, was the point of either Leia's sacrifice or Hope for her son?

Now let's get to the Filoni shows.

Clone Wars was a tragedy. Clone Wars, from the very beginning, was going to end badly for everyone involved. And it did. But even up to the end, they held out Hope that it wouldn't. And even after it happened, the survivors still Hoped that they could bring a return to Good. Obi-Wan sees literally everyone he loves die in front of him. Whether it's Satine or his fellow Jedi or Anakin, they all die. And yet he continues to Hope that the Light Side will prevail. Ahsoka loses everything and leaves the Order, but she still has Hope that she can make the Galaxy a better place. Rex loses his entire family, but Hopes that there are others out there who, like him, were able to avoid Order 66.

Rebels shows us that Ahsoka and Rex's Hope wasn't misplaced. That there was still a chance for them to do Good and for the Galaxy to resist the Empire. For Rex to find other Clones. For Ahsoka to find a purpose again. The crew of the Ghost hoped that what they would do would bring about a positive change. Kanan sacrificed himself knowing that Ezra, Hera, and Sabine would be able to help the Rebellion. Like Obi-Wan, he knew that he was not the only Hope - that Ezra and Ahsoka and Obi-Wan would continue on the path of the Jedi, even if the latter wouldn't join the Rebels, and that Hera's leadership ability and Sabine's connection to Clan Wren would help the Rebellion in coming battles. He died hoping that there was a greater good being served with his sacrifice, and it wasn't that he wanted to die - him looking back to Hera was all the proof that was needed - but that the survival of Hope was important.

Rogue One is pretty self-explanatory. Rebellions are built on hope. What did they send us? Hope. Always, every time, when it comes to it, Hope for the better is what people sacrifice themselves for. They don't do it because they don't feel like their lives are worth it. They do it because if they didn't, then Hope would die instead. And Hope is what makes life possible.

The Mandalorian keeps up this trend, too. Din was doing his thing, collecting bounties and not caring about anyone or anything but The Way until he meets the Child. And at that point, he feels something, a greater purpose, and when he's given his task by the Armourer, he accepts it. At first, he wants to complete a Quest, but as time goes on, he bonds with the Child and, once he realizes that, everything from that point forward is Din Djarin, the Mandalorian, a faceless and ruthless hunter, hoping that he can make this child's life better in some measurable way. When Din finds a settlement that's in trouble, he could just get what he comes for, but he knows that the people are suffering and you can't ignore that he has the Hope that the Galaxy will, one day, be a better place, and he can make it a bit better by doing what he does. So he does it. And keeps doing it. Because the people are hoping for salvation and, even if he's not what they want, he can at least fake it well enough that they don't realize it.

So yeah.

Hope is what good Star Wars media is about. It's what it's always been about. And when it's ignored, we get TFA and TRoS.

[vortexofentertainment]

The Few Things - Chapter Eleven

Soooo, I’m sorry for anyone who’s been waiting for this (if you’re even out there). I know it’s been, like, two months. Life’s been crazy and I have had zero motivation/creativity in me. I apologize if this sucks, but I’m just glad to be (hopefully) back in the swing of things. Also, happy late birthday to @scatteredworlds ! I love you, boo ;)

*I don’t own Pitch Perfect or any of the characters

*Here’s a master post since I’ve been a dick and haven’t updated in so long.

“Okay ladies, line it up!” Aubrey said with a clap of her hands.

Beca watched as all nine girls scrambled to get into place. Emily and Stacie looked a little more lost than the other seven, but confident none the less. 

The Bellas had been practicing for a week or so now, and Beca finally held up to her promise to come and watch. Chloe had insisted that she give them at least a little more time to get ready, considering none of them had performed in a while. 

But Beca didn’t care really about the other Bellas. Her eyes were glued to Chloe and her ears were tuned to the music that really needed an update. She couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t the exact same routine they performed all those years ago. 

They weren’t terrible. A little rusty maybe. Stacie and Emily fit in perfectly as they went through the routine and Emily even had a solo. 

And, to Beca’s surprise, when Chloe said that they had a beatboxer named Lilly she was talking about the same Lilly that was Beca’s friend in college. Beca had no idea the girl was in an a capella group, but then again, she really didn’t know anything about Lilly. She was secretive, weird, and kind of scary. Oh, and one hell of a beatboxer.

“How do I get in on this shindig?” Amy asked as she watched alongside Beca. She had brought her blonde friend for support, to keep her from falling into Chloe’s trap of twerking and other sexy moves that had Beca practically drooling. 

“Seriously?” Beca asked looking over at Amy. The Bellas finished their performance and Chloe skipped over to Beca with a big smile on her face.  

“So?” Chloe asked expectantly. 

“I want in!” Amy blurted out. Chloe looked at her, clearly confused but also elated. 

“Can you match pitch?” Chloe asked as she stood up a little straighter. 

“Try me,” Amy challenged, and Chloe did.

Beca was surprised that her friend could match every pitch Chloe threw at her. When did all of her friends become so talented? 

“Why don’t you come to practice tomorrow, and we’ll see how well you can adapt to the choreography,” Chloe grinned. 

Amy nodded once and then she was off to socialize. Beca hoped the other Bellas were ready for someone like Amy. She could be a lot at first. 

“Becs,” Chloe said as she took Beca’s hand in both of hers. 

“You were great,” Beca told her truthfully. She pulled Chloe a little closer and kissed her. “The music is a little outdated, but you guys are good.”

“I could think of someone who could update the music and add a killer alto to our pack,” Chloe said hopefully.

“Chloe,” Beca groaned. “You guys are great, and with Amy now you have the ten you wanted to begin with.”

She could see the disappointment in Chloe’s face as she spoke. Everything inside of her wanted to give in and just agree to do it.

“How about I help with the music? I can do that,” she compromised. It was amazing what Chloe could convince her to do without really saying anything at all.

“Fine,” Chloe mumbled as she stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

“Don’t be mad.” Beca leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her girlfriend’s nose.

“I’m not mad,” Chloe exhaled. “Just disappointed,” she added, and she wrapped her arms around Beca’s waist and pulled her closer. “But I get it. It’s not for you.”

Beca didn’t say anything, she just chewed on her bottom lip as she studied Chloe’s disappointed face. She knew the redhead wasn’t trying to guilt her into it, but she still felt that ache in her heart that came with disappointing anyone. 

“Okay, fine,” Beca broke in a huff. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. 

“Wait, what?” Chloe asked, leaning away from Beca to see her face a little better. 

“I’ll do it,” Beca said unenthusiastically as she closed her eyes tightly. “Just… yeah. I’ll do it.” She opened her eyes to see just how excited Chloe was.

“Becs, you don’t have to,” Chloe tried to backtrack. It was cute, really. The way her eyes were glowing with excitement, but she was trying to keep a serious face.

“I want to, for you,” Beca told her. “Hell, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“That’s the spirit,” she heard from behind her. She turned and looked at Aubrey. She couldn’t get a good read on the blonde’s expression. “Hi, I’m Aubrey Posen. Chloe’s best friend,” she said as she stuck her hand out for Beca to shake.

“Beca,” Beca replied, taking the outstretched hand. Aubrey’s grip was strong and a little too tight in Beca’s opinion.

She had heard so much about Aubrey, but nothing really to get a good read of her beforehand. Chloe just usually gushed about her and their friendship and how much she loved her best friend. It was cute, but Beca had an inkling she and Aubrey wouldn’t be that close. 

“Beca said she’s in!” Chloe grinned as she jumped up and down beside Beca. 

“Well, we’ll have to hear her sing first,” Aubrey said as she looked at Chloe. 

“I’m sorry?” Chloe asked as her brow furrowed.

“I know you said she was great, Chloe, but the rest of us need to be the judge of that as well.” 

Beca looked from Aubrey over to Chloe. The redhead looked downright offended that Aubrey would ever even consider the fact that Beca was not qualified for the Bellas. The rest of the group was crowding around them now, waiting to see how it all played out.

“You want me to audition?” Beca asked, just for her own clarity. 

“Every potential member must audition to become a Bella,” Aubrey explained. “Emily and Stacie sang for us at the first practice, and just because you’re dating Chloe doesn’t give you a pass.”

Beca raised her eyebrows a bit at the comment but a grin spread across her lips. Aubrey was a little bitchy, but Beca always liked that in a person.

“Aubrey,” Chloe said in a hushed tone. 

“No, it’s fine.” Beca turned towards Chloe, the grin still in place. “I don’t mind.”

“I’ll go first,” Amy said loudly as she stepped into the middle of the group. All the attention turned to her, including Aubrey’s, who looked confused. 

Before anyone could ask any questions or protest, Amy broke into song. She belted Since You Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson at the top of her lungs until the very end when she whispered, “Crushed it,”

Everyone applauded. Beca still couldn’t get over how her friends were all so talented as she clapped along slowly with everyone else.

“Alright Shawshank, your turn,” Amy said as she pointed to Beca very whimsically and weird. 

“Um,” Beca looked around a bit. She spotted a cup on the table beside her holding a bunch of pens. She promptly poured them all out and then took a seat on the floor in the middle of the group.

Her stomach was churning with nerves. She wasn’t used to performing in front of a crowd, no matter how small it was. She guessed it was something she should get used to since she had agreed to this whole thing. 

God, what had she gotten herself into?

She cleared her throat once before tapping the cup twice and starting the song. She had learned it from a YouTube tutorial. She spent one whole day after school working to master the Cup Song as she called it. She wasn’t sure how she came across it in the first place, or why she felt the need to be so good at it. She just knew it had never helped her in any way until now. 

When she slammed the cup down to finish the song, she looked up at Chloe’s beaming face. Her smile was big, and her eyes were bright. Even if she didn’t get into the group, that look alone was worth doing this a thousand times over in Beca’s mind. 

“Seems to me like we have two new Bellas!” Cynthia Rose said as she began to clap. 

Emily reached down and pulled Beca up, wrapping her in a hug as she let out an excited squeal. “I can’t believe you’re a Bella!” she gushed as she let go of Beca. 

“Well, she’s whipped, so it makes sense,” Stacie said as she wrapped an arm around Beca as soon as Emily let go. 

Beca felt her cheeks flush at the comment as Stacie let go. The fact the Chloe was now wrapped around her didn’t help the redness in her cheeks. Her girlfriend’s arms were wrapped tightly around Beca’s neck, bodies pressed together, as Beca managed to wrap her arms around Chloe in response.

“Beautiful,” Chloe mumbled as she peppered Beca’s face with kisses.

“Dude,” Beca giggled as she pushed Chloe away from her gently but keeping her grip on Chloe’s hips.

“Let’s celebrate!” Flo said excitedly to the group.

“Beca is DJing tonight at that club down the street,” Emily said just as excitedly. “We can all meet up there later tonight?” 

“Look at you go, Legacy,” Cynthia Rose joked as she nudged Emily. 

“Legacy?” Beca asked as she looked at Chloe. 

“Yeah, Emily’s mom used to be a Bella. That makes her a legacy.” 

“Dude, you never told me that,” Beca said as she turned to Emily. The taller brunette shrugged. 

“She used to talk about it all the time, so when I first started at Barden I had my heart set on trying out,” Emily explained. “Except the Bellas weren’t taking new members, and the next year I decided that maybe I needed to just focus on my studies…” Emily trailed off as she looked down at the ground. “I don’t know. It just never worked out.” 

An awkward silence fell over the group. 

“Anyway,” Stacie said loudly. “Club? Say around nine tonight?” 

All of the girls agreed and nodded as the split apart. Chloe stayed glued to Beca’s side until it was only the two of them and Aubrey left.

“So, you DJ too?” Aubrey asked.

“Yes,” Beca answered simply. “Maybe, if you want, I could help with some sets for the group?”

“We’ll see,” Aubrey replied and turned sharply to leave. “See you both tonight!” she called over her shoulder as she opened the door. 

Beca looked over at Chloe who was still staring at the now closed door her best friend had gone through. 

“She’ll warm up to you,” Chloe nodded, assuring not only herself but Beca. “She’s just kind of hard to get to know,” she added. She turned and met Beca’s gaze. 

“Maybe,” Beca grinned as she and Chloe started walking towards the door too. 

**

The Bellas were… something else. Not only were they easy to spot in the crowd, but they were easily the group having the most fun. 

Beca found herself looking up multiple times, a smile on her face, as she watched Chloe full belly laugh with her friends. She would throw her head back and her eyes would sparkle. Every time that happened she would she would look over at Beca as if she was in on the joke. It hurt to not be over there with them all the time. They were as close as they could get to the DJ booth, but Beca was otherwise occupied. 

That’s why, when she got a break, she immediately made her way over to the group.

“DJ!” Flo said excitedly as she spotted Beca first. 

Chloe turned excitedly, eyes shining as bright as her smile, and jumped up out of the booth to wrap her arms around Beca’s neck. 

“Hey there,” Beca chuckled as she let her hands rest on Chloe’s waist. She felt Chloe shift so that her lips were ticking her ear. It sent a shiver down her spine.

“You’re doing so good,” Chloe said in a gentle voice. “But I miss you.”

Beca could hear the influence of alcohol in Chloe’s voice. It was only the second time she had seen the redhead drunk, but she doesn’t really remember the first encounter in detail since she was also wasted. Experiencing a drunk Chloe while completely sober seemed like it was going to be fun.

“I’m right here,” Beca replied as Chloe pulled back so she was face to face with Beca. She was hovering closely, her eyes a little hooded with the alcohol. 

“Noooooo,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “Usually you’re there.” She pointed up to the booth where Beca had been confined all night. “I want you here,” she went on as she pulled Beca’s body closer to hers. 

Beca stumbled a bit but Chloe had a tight hold around her torso. Before Beca could answer, Chloe’s lips were on hers. It was soft at first, not exactly what Beca was expecting, but then it grew more passionate. Chloe slipped her tongue into Beca’s mouth effortlessly and Beca let herself get caught up in the taste of cherry and some sort of alcohol. 

“Get a room!” Beca faintly heard as Chloe pulled away with a giggle. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the way Chloe kissed her. 

“Here, sit.” Chloe guided a still reeling Beca into the booth where she had been sitting before. Then, she promptly made herself comfortable in Beca’s lap. 

The dress Chloe was wearing wasn’t doing anything to help Beca keep her mind straight (pun not intended but accurate nonetheless). She was wearing a strapless, tight, black dress the clung to her thighs about midway down. Now that she was sitting in Beca’s lap, the dress had ridden up just a bit.  

Beca took pleasure in knowing that it was totally and completely fine for her to rest her hand on the expanse of skin just under the hem of the dress. She gave Chloe’s leg a squeeze which caused the redhead to lean back down and kiss Beca’s temple. 

“How long are you on break for?” Chloe asked as she pulled away once more.

“Fifteen minutes or so,” Beca answered.

She took time to look around at the other Bellas, this group she was now a part of, and really take it in. Stacie was talking to Aubrey about something pretty adamantly, which shocked Beca. She was sure her best friend would have been gone by now. Emily was sitting with Jessica and Ashley who were showing her something on Ashely’s phone. From the look on Emily’s face, Beca assumed it was a puppy or some sort of cute animal. Flo and Cynthia Rose were watching Fat Amy do some sort of bottle trick that Beca was sure would end in disaster. No one really knew where Lilly had gotten off to. Then, there was her and Chloe. Chloe, who was nibbling on Beca’s ear again, her hand on Beca’s jaw trying to get her to face her once more. When she finally did, Chloe captured her lips in another searing kiss.

“What’s gotten into you?” Beca asked as she pulled away with a grin. She wasn’t complaining. Not in the slightest. PDA wasn’t her thing, but if she had a frisky Chloe Beale in her lap… she wasn’t going to stop her. 

“You just look so sexy up there doing your thang,” Chloe answered with an intoxicated giggle. Her gentle caress of Beca’s jaw turned possessive as she kissed her again. 

This kiss was just downright dirty. There was no other way Beca could describe it. Chloe was in full control as she nipped at Beca’s lower lip. She bit down a little hard, pulling a gasp from Beca in response. Her body was thrumming. It was unfair that she would have to return to the booth, all alone, in less than ten minutes. 

“Chlo,” Beca managed to get out as she pulled away from her girlfriend. 

“Bec,” Chloe replied in that voice that drove Beca crazy. 

Her whole body tingled at the thought of that voice. Her fingers dug into Chloe’s thigh on instinct. She hadn’t noticed her eyes were still closed until she opened them and met Chloe’s icy blues looking back at her. 

“Do you have time to dance with me?” Chloe asked as she slid out of Beca’s lap, landing a little wobbly on her heel clad feet. 

“Actually…” Beca said with a grin. 

It was a miracle. It really was. The timing was perfect because as soon as the word left her mouth, her own special mix of Titanium came on. 

The way Chloe lit up made Beca’s heart soar. She pulled the brunette into her arms as they made their way to the dance floor. Beca wasn’t much for dancing, but dancing with Chloe might have been her favorite thing at the moment. She remembered doing it the first time they went out, but this time there were no restrictions. 

She could place her hands on Chloe’s hips as the girl turned and backed into her. She could nibble and Chloe’s ear as the redhead reached back and tangled her fingers in Beca’s hair. She could let herself feel everything as Chloe danced against her, turning and staring at her with those lust filled eyes. It was truly amazing, and Beca hated that she had to leave her girlfriend after only one dance. 

Except, for the rest of the night she got to watch Chloe have fun with her best friends. She had even described them as her family. Beca found herself chuckling throughout the remainder of the night as she watched her three best friends intermingle with Chloe’s. It looked like they all just fit together. No question about it. 

Beca was kind of glad she had decided to become one of them, too.

[anonymouswriter2311]

Proposallll!!! In the troll bridge of course. The troll is so important. Both for Margot and Tilly, Robin and Alice. I don’t know what you have in mind but I always dream that Robin to propose Alice.( after curse is broken I imagine they traveled the world together since both of them hungry for adventures this time they will have adventures together, maybe 5 years later Robin decided that why would she waited this long and propose)

Thanks for the prompt, I have had so many proposals prompts so I have decided to do 2, one that includes the curse happening (this one) and then one that will be if the curse never happened. Hope you enjoy! 

“You nervous?” Zelena asked as she snaked her arms around her daughter, a small bump pressed against the archers back. The curse had been broken for years now, those years for Robin had been spent traveling both the real world and the different realms, only this time instead of being the lone wolf traveling with just her backpack for company, Robin had Alice. Together, they climbed mountains, swam in lakes and ran from mobs of villagers, all with a huge smile plastered on their faces.

“I’ve never been so nervous in all my life,” Robin mumbled as she debated on whether or not she would wear her glasses, she knew the effect that they seemed to have on the blonde, but at the same time, she needed Alice’s focused for what she was about to do. “No, glasses it is then,” Robin mumbled to herself, earning a confused look from her Mother.

“You two should have tied the knot years ago! If I were Alice, I’d be pissed at you for taking so long.” Regina announced as she walked in with a smirk plastered on her face.

“They were too busy jet-setting around the world to think of marriage.” Zelena teased as she moved from her daughter, to hug her sister. “It’s good to see you again Sis.”

“Let’s not wait too long between visits next time…. oh god, I can’t believe you’re having another one.” Regina commented as she rubbed the small bump.

“Me either, especially since this one was such a handful.” Zelena joked, “But, I’m definitely staying away from onion rings this time.” She joked with her sister knowingly, smirking at the confused look on her daughter’s face.

“What do onion rings have to do with anything?” Robin commented as she finally moved from her spot in front of the mirror. “Hey Aunt Regina, I’m so glad you could make it.” Robin quickly hugged the woman.

“It’s a long story…I’m not going to lie, I was expecting this call a few years ago! What has taken you so long?” The taller brunette teased her niece.

“Honestly…I bought the ring a few weeks into our first trip, and there were so many perfect, beautiful times when I could have asked her…but, it just didn’t feel right. There is only one place in all the realms that would be right…” Robin smiled daydreamlike before she was engulfed by the two woman that raised her.

“Papa!” Alice ran into her Papa’s open arms as he opened the door to their once shared apartment.

“Starfish!” The man exclaimed equally as excited as Alice.

“I missed you so much!”

“Aye love, not as much as I have…where’s Robin?” The former pirate asked as he peeked his head out into the hallway.

“She had something to do over at the bar…she said something about meeting her later at the troll.” Alice smiled brightly as she skipped over to the table where her Papa had already laid out a tray of fresh marmalade sandwiches for her.

“Ahh, well I can’t wait to see her too. You two have to come home more often.” He added as he poured a cup of tea for them both.

“Oh, I’ve got exciting news on that front. Robin and I have decided to buy the bar from Regina, we’re going to be staying in town for good this time.” Alice smiled the brightest of smiles before she was quickly pulled into a near bone-crushing hug, her Papa clearly overjoyed at the thought of having his little girl close by again.

“Oh, that’s great news Starfish!” Hook coed as he squeezed the girl tight. He had been missing both of the girls so much since they left, with them only coming home at Christmas and for his birthday.

“Traveling the world with Robin was a dream come true, but I’m ready to settle down and I’ve missed having you around.” Alice smiled with happy tears forming in her eyes.

“Settling down aye?” Hook winked knowingly, remembering the conversation he had with Robin all those years ago. “It’s about time…” Hook stopped himself as he looked down at Alice’s hand and noticed the absence of a ring.

“What is about time?” Alice questioned.

“Noting love, just about time that you two came home.” Hook quickly covered up, not wanting to let it slip that the archer was planning a proposal eventually.

“Yeah, I’m happy too! Fancy a quick chess match?” Alice winked before skipping over to the custom-made chess board that Alice and Robin had made for him last Christmas.

Alice was in the bathroom cleaning up for meeting Robin when the detective’s phone sprung to life. Smiling happily as a picture of his daughter and her brunette girlfriend took over his phone screen.

“Robin? Did Alice forget to charge her phone again, I’ll just-” Hook was quickly cut off, by the sharpness of Robin’s voice.

“No!” Robin breathed heavily. “Where is she?”

“In the bathroom getting ready, what’s going on love?” The pirate frowned, hating the fact that he had been partly left out of the loop with whatever the archer was planning.

“Tonight’s the night…and I need you to stall her.” Robin commented, desperation laced in her voice.

“I knew it!” The man celebrated silently. “That’s why Regina is back in town, and your Mother!”

“Well done detective,” Robin answered sarcastically, enjoying the playful relationship they had with each other.

“Lay off lass, I’ve had to learn not to get my hopes up when I got a hunch about this…5 years, Robin! You asked me 5 bloody years ago!”

“Shh, Alice might hear you! And I know, but I wanted to make sure everything was perfect…can you stall her without giving anything away?” Robin begged.

“Aye lass, what time do you want her at?”

“I need you both here in about 30 minutes, Mom and Aunt Regina are just putting the final touches on everything.” In the background Hook could hear the demanding voice of Zelena shouting commands.

“See you then…oh and Robin, I’m glad that this day is finally here. I’m so lucky to be gaining a daughter like you.” The detective whispered, his eyes glazing over with tears.

“And I’m glad to have a Papa like you,” Robin added before hanging up.

“Who was that?” Alice asked as she skipped into the kitchen, only to come face to face with her now crying, Papa. “Papa, what’s wrong? Who were you talking to?” Alice’s smile was quickly wiped away and replaced with a look of deep concern, she had only seen her Papa properly cry a handful of times, so she knew that something must have been terribly wrong.

“Oh no love, that was just Robin…” The man didn’t get to finish before Alice was running out the door, thinking the worse as she ran the streets of Settle, with her Papa quickly following behind hoping to catch her before she got anywhere near the troll, interrupting the surprise that the brunette was setting up.

“Alice?” Robin caught a flash of blonde running towards her before she was practically tackled to the ground. “What are you doing here?”

“My Papa was crying and then he mentioned your name and I thought the worst…are you okay, nobody has hurt you, have they?” Alice climbed off the brunette, just enough to check her body for injuries.

“Alice, love I’m fine…I was just…” Robin looked around at their family staring down at them, trying their hardest not to laugh, something that Alice had failed to notice yet. “Um love, can you let me up?” Robin blushed as she motioned to the familiar faces staring at them.

“Oh, hello,” Alice mumbled as she finally got off the brunette. “What is everyone doing here?” Alice asked as she turned away from the brunette to smile at her and Robin’s family. Confusion rose up in the blonde as she noticed the strings of fairy lights that we hung around them, followed by a trail of white rose petals that lead to where Alice had tackled Robin.

“They are here for this?” Alice quickly turned around to find Robin down on one knee, holding the most beautiful diamond ring Alice had ever seen. It was a simple silver band that held a big green diamond, surrounded by two smaller blue diamonds.

“Robin?” Alice whispered, her eyes filled with tears.

“Alice, I’ve loved for I don’t even know how long. We’ve seen each other at our worst, our best, our ugliest…but that never changed anything. When we first met I was a bit of an asshole to everyone, too hell-bent on living up to some legacy, but you and your mad ways, you showed me that there was more to life than the legacy that we leave behind. You make me a better person, with every little smile and adorable giggle…I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a really long time, but I knew that it had to be here at this spot. This is the spot where I fell so deeply in love with you…twice!” Robin paused as she looked up at the troll beside her. “He brought us together and I plan on it staying that way for the rest of our lives…so I guess that just leaves me with one last thing to say…Alice Jones, will you marry me?”

Without another word spoken, Alice quickly jumped on the brunette sending them both falling back onto the hard concrete. Kissing hard, the two girls both blissfully cut off from the world.

“Is that a yes?” Robin asked breathlessly, as she cupped Alice’s face.

“Yes, yes, a hundred times yes!” Alice screamed as she kissed her true love once again. Zelena was the first to shed a tear, blaming it on pregnancy hormones, followed by Hook was still emotionally raw from his previous conversation with Robin. “I love you Nobin.” Alice beamed as Robin slid the ring onto her finger, before standing to help the blonde up.

“And I love you too, Alice.” Robin hugged the girl, soon they were joined by Zelena, Regina, and Hook. 

AO3

[lucywithlupus]

Top 4 Bad & Good Things about my Body/ Top 4 Cosas Malas & Buenas de mi Cuerpo

Let's get real: arthritis sucks. It sucks incredibly hard. It sucks so bad not even all of the straws in this planet (serious issue) could suck as terribly as receiving the sad news that you suffer from a rheumatic condition.     And because this condition is that terrible, it can lead your mind, heart, and soul to constantly attack your body with negative feelings, perceptions, and emotions. It is like your mind cannot stop concentrating about how not good your body is, how it fails to do the smallest things, or how it is not doing the things you ask it to do.    The Mental Health Surveys published in 2008 their results on mental disorders among persons with arthritis. With a sample of 10 641 adults (wow!), with 78% response rate in an audience with 23% reporting at least one medical disorder in the past 12 months, they clearly showed that these disorders and mental illnesses go hand in hand. About 35% of people with a mental health disorder did seek treatment, while more than half did not even consider the idea.    These were their conclusions:

"The high rate of not consulting among those with disability and comorbidity is an important public health problem. As Australia has a universal health insurance scheme, the barriers to effective care must be patient knowledge and physician competence."    Aka there is a LOT of work to do. A lot.        Another study by SAGE Journals said first what was said by The Mental Health Surveys in 2005, only focusing on rheumatoid arthritis (RA) About 150 participants, with varying duration of time since diagnosed, and the results were the following:         1. Perceiving illness as that something closest to you worsened depression and overall quality of life.     2. Remaining calm actually worked on those recently diagnosed:

"Optimism related to lower pain in early and intermediate RA. Social support related to lower fatigue in established RA. Indications for interventions targeted by disease duration are discussed."    Sometimes, when the years go by and your good ol' pal arthritis has been sitting in your couch for way too long, it can really get heavy on your shoulders. So much to do, so many things to see and experience, only to be dragged down by your frenemy right there *aggressively stares at chair*.    But it does not have to be this complicated. Your body and your mind are one and the same, they do not have to hate each other, or disconnect from one another in a way that actually will strip away all control from your hands. Your mind and body should not have fights every two seconds, they are both just trying their damn hardest to get by, and you know that. I know that. Your loved ones know that.    So let's do it for them, for you and me, but most importantly, you.    Without further ado, here we go! Top 4 Bad and Good Things about my Body with Arthritis.    

   Bad Thing 1: My body is weak

This used to be my mantra for six years of my life. I used to play this on repeat in my head like the hottest new summer mixtape. I already had enough with high school, trying to get unimaginable perfect grades and carrying the burden of being told every day that I was Einstein or something and I could achieve those grades if I wanted to.

The problem is that I wanted to, but know I know I never did. Does that make sense?

Let's be real. What kid likes to be sat down, all day, staring at colorful post its and trying to remember those English quotes for a massive surprise essay next week? No one! Not even me now, even though I am an adult. Kinda.

I just dreamed of getting to university, the days of the present shifting by while I had my eyes on the prize. At least I managed to get a spot on a university I love and enjoy with all my heart.

But even at arrival, I felt weak. Felt weak that I could not sit in my lecture hall comfortably for an hour. Felt weak because I had to take a nap in the afternoon after a three-hour lab. Felt weak because I could not finish that deadline because my knees hurt way too much to sit down and type away.

Feeling weak is normal, but we need to know that we cannot do everything. Nothing in life is free, but also it does not mean we do not take a break every now and then to make sure our body is taken care of. You cannot achieve what you want without rest. Your body will blow up! Poof!

Do not do that to yourself. Please.

Good Thing 1: My body is strong

Think of the strongest person you know. It's probably its Dwayne the Rock Johnson so let's stick with him.

Dwayne is a huge person. His arms are probably bigger than my ribcage, and his ribcage is probably bigger than my entire body. He trains a lot, eats more than that and is always ready to sing in the next Disney Movie, kick butt in the next action feature or yell in Moati dancing with a bunch of ten-year-old football players (pls do google this. It is hilarious.)

His life is pretty incredible, but that does not mean he did not have his up and downs. His childhood was pretty intense, as he was a major athlete and had to keep up with the legacy of wrestling legends established by his grandfather.

But this 101 on Dwayne's life isn't about him, it's about you! Look at you! You are the Rock too!

You managed to be told you have a condition that may probably never leave you and you successfully did not attempt to quit your life. You basically babysit your body all day, every day, trying to give it what it needs and avoid what it does not. You made and will make sacrifices to make sure you and those with you are ok, under any circumstance.

We get up every morning, in stinging pain, attempting to fling our bodies out of bed and waddle to the bathroom, take a shower, change clothes, brush our teeth, stuff our aching feet into some shoes and get out that door because we know we would go mad if we did not fight this every day. We know that if we did not go through that hassle every day and showed arthritis who's boss, our minds would collapse, we would lose the fight.

So keep fighting.

Bad Thing 2: My body is weird

Needless to say, a typical human body does not wreck itself everytime it goes up the stairs (remember kids: the first step is always the hardest). It is simply not the way it was designed to function, simple biology. Now, that does not mean your body is plain vanilla, but it also does not mean your body is an abomination like the ones in horror movies- or the ones who barely make it through horror movies.

My body is not weird. Period. I already spoke about how people are so legitimately shocked that I can properly function like the productive adult that I am, let alone those who just disapprove of me being me in public. Well, too bad Susan, I am here and so is my medical condition! I can't press the off button today thank you very much.

Your body can do so many amazing things. It can take care of itself and others. It can stump to the places you need to be in, or walk in good days, or run in the best days. It can do so many wonderful things, but you have to stop telling yourself that you are the odd one out. Anyone with a slight glimpse of intelligence will not care that you have to take your pills at this exact time, or that you have to sit down and rest for a while.

Keep those people close, but your enemies closer. No enemies, but confused strangers. Teach them about your condition, educate the public on what it is and how they can actually help us get by (aka this blog!).

Good Thing 2: My body is interesting

Maybe its because I am studying for a degree in science, but natural curiosity is never as bad as some people may think. Your body actually is fascinating to many doctors and field experts out there! The way it behaves and its mysterious ways are like an elegant puzzle, an enigma for them to observe and somehow complete.

Now, don't sell yourself to science, unless you really want to. Find money elsewhere.

I was always questioning why my body behaved this way until I realized the way I felt, when I felt it and how I felt it was pretty consistent, almost clock-like. The way our body operates is highly interesting, investigating on the subject won't blow your mind, but it may lead you to ask a question or two as to why your body is doing this to itself.

Maybe googling or reading a few articles some things will help you share your journey with others. Soon I will teach you the best ways to research for your own condition in a new post!

Just close your eyes for a moment, and focus on every single part of your body, one by one. Think about one good thing they did today: your feet took you to have breakfast, your hands held your favorite book, your eyes watched a beautiful movie today, your mouth helped you eat lunch, etc.

Any insignificant action that your body does is amazing and should be celebrated. Treat yourself for that!

Bad Thing 3: My body is ugly

Ugly duckling never felt so ugly. Now she did not only had to worry about her thick legs that could not fit inside those terribly small skinny jeans or that small bump in her stomach where, surprise surprise, but organs are also supposed to be in. Suddenly, what little body confidence she had taken a whole new spin: her body was now also not cute in other ways. Like abnormally inflated joints, finger stuck in a claw-like fashion, or the constant weight gain and loss I had during my experience with arthritis due to the lack of exercise.

Arthritis and other rheumatic conditions make yourself feel terrible about your appearance. Taking care of your looks sometimes is not a priority anymore. It can even be a challenge: you have to pick outfits, wear uncomfortable shoes, not have enough space in your purse or pockets (women pockets are the worst!period!) to carry your medicine around. Makeup can sometimes even be harsh on your skin when you get redness, or your hair may fall out because of the medication.

Let's not talk about shaving. Avoid for our own good.  

But everyone deserves to feel cute, at least once in a while. Now I really don't care what they tell me: I can look a mess but feel beautiful, every single day. Because my body is my home, it takes care of me, and I take care of it. It deserves pampering and I will provide it every now and then.

Good Thing 3: My body is beautiful

Now, let's repeat the exercise we just did, now open your eyes. Look at yourself in the mirror, take in all that you are, every curve, every little detail, and imperfection. Say one nice thing about it all. Look at those eyes! Look at that hair! So stylish! Look at those shoulders! So strong! And so on.

No one's body is perfect, and trying it to make it magazine ready all day is not worth it. But please have the chance to try new things, look for new clothes (or used ones) that make you feel good, beautiful and confident all day!

So if you see a cute dress that you like and you can afford it, go for it! You will slay whatever place you will wear it to. Did you saw a nice shirt on sale? Buy it! You will look so cool, so fly.

Hint: there will also be a new post coming about tips and tricks on how to buy and wear clothes when you have arthritis. Struggling with that zipper every morning is a major problem! Stop!

Bad Thing 4: My body will never heal

   As already discussed, no one really knows why arthritis is a thing, and thus, no one knows how it leaves and why. Maybe it has to do with stress. Perhaps it has something to do with environmental conditions or lifestyle. Who knows.

But that does not mean you lose hope that easily. Sure, some of us have had our condition for five, ten, even thirty years, and it still there. But arthritis' place in our bodies is not permanent, I swear on Yuval Harari (aka one of my favorite authors of all time).

You can bet all you want that when you least expect it, this uninvited acquaintance will be poofed off, and free you shall be at last. Just make sure you are working for it: be kind to yourself, take your meds, eat healthy (at least try), do some exercise, educate yourself and others, help out those in need, etc.

Good Thing 4: My body will get better

It will, and it is. Yas.

I sometimes I feel challenged to balance my priorities and make sure I am not overworking myself when trying to get better. The irony of it all: we sometimes work too hard in trying to get better sometimes. We read a lot, research to no end. We try so many different diets, hoping one will be the one to cure us at last, we go to so many different treatments, yoga sessions, detox classes, and God knows what more.

Being excited about staying healthy is important, a good solid start. But do not go crazy trying to find a cure that may not even be accessible to you at stores or detox juices. Instead, trust your body. It knows what it's doing, most of the time. It will heal itself in the only way it knows how to: eating, sleeping, resting, drinking water,  and asking for stuff. Lots of stuff. Another hint: new post on how to make a survival kit soon!

Getting better can sometimes feel like a rollercoaster: sometimes we are up, sometimes we fall head first 20 feet up in the air towards the solid ground. Gravity is harsh, man.

But you know what I a trying to say. Things will not always be easy, and sometimes you will not be able to control everything or know what to do. That's why you have to ask for help. From your parents, your caretakes, your doctors and your friends. Build a support circle around you so you always know someone always has your back, sometimes literally.

Arthritis is no piece of cake, and other rheumatic disorders are not either. They are tasks for us to fulfill, but we are not bad. We are not sick. We are not ugly. And we definitely are not going to sit here and take it. Because we have enough things to worry about, and we could not care less about what you or others have to say about our progress. We know our worth, we appreciate ourselves and celebrate our bodies in the best way we can: by treating it right, with respect, dignity, love, and courage.

Love you so you can love. See you around!

Also, I would love to share with your guys this lovely group of families in Kampala with children with disabilities at Ndagire Ritah @ritandagire76 on Instagram. Please copy and paste their username and say hi! Drop a donation if you can! It's for a great cause!

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Seamos sinceros: la artritis apesta. Increíblemente. Es tan mala que ni siquiera todas las cañitas del mundo (problema bastante serio) no podrían igualarse a recibir la triste noticia de que tu sufres de artritis reumatoide.

Y por que esta condición es tan horrible, puede convencer a tu mente, corazón y espíritu de atacar a tu cuerpo con pensamientos negativos, percepciones falsas y emociones dañinas. Es como si tu mente no puede dejar de concentrarse en todo lo malo que tu cuerpo es, todas las fallas que comete, incluso en las quehaceres más pequeños, o cómo no está logrando las cosas que tu le pides que haga.The Mental Health Surveys publicó en el 2008 sus resultados en la relación que existe entre las enfermedades mentales y la artritis. Con 10 641 sujetos adultos puestos a prueba (wow!) y una tasa de respuesta del 78%, el estudio involucró casi 2,500 personas discapacitadas. Los resultados demostraron que los desórdenes reumatológicos y las enfermedades mentales van de mano en mano. Casi 35% de las personas que padecían de una enfermedad mental buscaron tratamientos, mientras que más de la mitas ni siquiera consideró la idea de hacerlo.

Y estas fueron sus conclusiones:  

" El alto índice de falta de tratamiento mental en aquellos que sufren de discapacidad y comorbilidad es un problema de salud pública. Ya que Australia tiene un esquema universal de seguros médicos, las barreras que previenen cuidado efectivo deben ser el conocimiento del paciente acerca de posibles tratamientos y la competencia del médico tratante."

En otras palabras, hay mucho que hacer. MUCHO. Demasiado.

Otro estudio por SAGE journals anticipó en 2005 lo dicho por The Mental Health Surveys, solo enfocándose en la artritis reumatoide (RA). Casi 150 participantes, quienes padecían de artritis por variadas duraciones de tiempo. Los resultados fueron los siguientes.

Percibir la enfermedad como lo más cercano a tu ser puede empeorar la depresión y calidad de vida.

Conservar la calma tuvo, en efecto, un resultado positivo en aquellos que acababan de ser diagnosticados.

"El optimismo mejoró el dolor secundario  en artritis reumatoide de duración temprana y intermedia. Indicaciones de intervenciones dirigidas a la duración de la enfermedad fueron discutidas."

A veces, cuando los años pasan y tu vieja amiga artritis estuvo sentada en tu sillón por mucho tiempo, en serio puede convertirse en una carga pesada. Tanto que hacer, tantas cosas que ver y experimentar, solo para ser empujada por tu amiga-enemiga, que siempre está justo ahí *miro mi silla*

Pero no tiene que ser tan complicado. Tu cuerpo y tu mente son tal para cual, fulano y mengano no tienen que odiarse, o desconectarse de una manera que quitaría todo el control de tus manos. Tu mente y cuerpo no deberían pelear cada dos segundos, solo están tratando de conseguir el mismo objetivo: trabajar super duro para sobrevivir, y eso ya lo sabías. Yo lo sabía. Tus seres queridos también lo sabían.Así que hagámoslo por ellos, por tu y yo. Pero sobre todo, hazlo por ti.Ahora sin más preámbulos, aquí vamos! Top 4 Cosas Malas y Buenas de Mi Cuerpo.   Cosa Mala 1: Mi cuerpo es débil

Este solía ser mi mantra por seis años de mi vida. Solía repetir esto en mi cabeza como esas canciones pop que salen en verano. Ya tenía suficientes líos con la secundaria, tratando de sacar notas inimaginables y perfectas y cargar la responsabilidad de ser vista como Einstein o algo por el estilo. Todo el mundo me decía que yo podía sacar la nota que quisiera sin esfuerzo alguno.

El problema es que yo sí mi esforzaba, pero nunca quise hacerlo. Se entiende?

Seamos honestos con nosotros mismos. A qué niño le gusta estar sentado todo el dia, mirando post its de colores con datos para el siguiente ensayo sorpresa de Inglés la próxima semana? Ninguno! Ni siquiera yo ahora quiero hacer eso, incluso si soy una adulta. Casi.

Yo solo soñaba con entrar a la universidad, los días del presente un abrir y cerrar de ojos mientras yo tenía la mirada fija en la línea de llegada. Al menos logre un lugar en una universidad que yo a mi y disfruto con todo mi corazón.

Pero incluso al llegar, me sentía débil. Débil porque no podía sentarme en mi salón de audiencias cómodamente por más de una hora. Débil porque debía tomar una siesta en la tarde después de un laboratorio de tres horas. Débil porque no podía entregar el trabajo por que mis rodillas me dolían demasiado para sentarme en mi escritorio y prender mi computadora.   No te hagas eso a ti mismo. Por favor.

Cosa Buena 1: Mi cuerpo es fuerte

Piensa en la persona más fuerte que conoces. Probablemente es Dwayne the Rock Johnson así que utilicemoslo de ejemplo.

Dwayne es una persona enorme. Sus brazos son probablemente más grandes que mi pecho, y su pecho es probablemente más grande que mi cuerpo. El entrena un montón, come más que eso y siempre está listo para cantar en la siguiente película de Disney, pegarle a alguien en el siguiente blockbuster de acción o gritar en un baile Haka junto a grupo de niñas de diez años en un partido de football (por favor busquen eso. Es divertidisimo.)

Su vida es muy increíble, pero eso no significa que no tenga sus altibajos. Su infancia fue bastante intensa, pues esa un atleta profesional desde muy chico y siempre trató de mantener el legado de leyendas boxeadoras establecido por su abuelo.

Pero este 101 en la vida de Dwayne no se trata de él. Se trata de ti! Mírate! Tú también eres como La Roca!Tu lograste soportar que te dijeran que tienes una condición que quizá nunca te abandone y victoriosamente no tratarse de terminar tu vida. Tu básicamente de cuidas cual bebé todo el dia, todos los días, esforzándote para darle a tu cuerpo lo que necesita y evitar lo que no necesita. Tu haces y harás los sacrificios necesarios para asegurarte que tu y los que amas están seguros, bajo cualquier circunstancia.

Nos levantamos cada mañana, en dolor agudo, tratando de aventar nuestros cuerpos fuera de la cama y cojear hasta el baño, ducharse, cambiarse de ropa, lavarse los dientes, encajar nuestros pies dolidos en un par de zapatillas y salir por esa puerta por que sabemos que perderíamos la cabeza si no luchamos esta condición todos los días. Sabemos claramente que si no nos tomáramos la molestia de hacer todo eso en la mañana y no le mostráramos a la artritis quien manda, nuestras mentes colapsaría y perderíamos la batalla.Así que sigue luchando.

Cosa Mala 2: Mi cuerpo es raro

No hace falta decir que el típico cuerpo humano usualmente no se destruye a sí mismo cada vez que tratas de subir las escaleras (recuerden amigos: el primer paso siempre es el más difícil). Tu cuerpo simplemente no está diseñado para funcionar de esa manera, biología básica. Ahora, eso no significa que tu cuerpo sea tan básico como el pan blanco, pero tampoco significa que tu cuerpo es una abominación como las que salen en las películas de horror- o los que a las re justas sobreviven la película.

Mi cuerpo no es raro. Punto. Ya hablé de las personas que siempre se encuentran tan sorprendidas que yo puedo funcionar como la mujer productiva que soy, y también de aquellos que me miran con desaprobación en público. Bueno, que pena Susan, estoy aquí y también lo está mi condición médica! No pude apretar el botón de apagado hoy, muchas gracias.

Tu cuerpo puede hacer tantas cosas maravillosas. Puede cuidarse y a otros. Puede lentamente dirigirse a los lugares en los que tu debes estar, o caminar hacia ellos en los días buenos, o correr incluso en los días súper buenos. Puede hacer tantas cosas maravillosas, pero tienes que dejar de nombrarte a ti mismo la oveja negra. Cualquiera con poco de inteligencia no le importará que tienes que tomar tus pastillas a esta hora exacta, o que tienes que sentarse un rato de descansar.

Ten a tus amigos cerca, pero a tu enemigos más cerca. No enemigos, pero extraños confundidos. Enséñales a cerca de tu condición, educa al público de qué es la artritis y cómo nos pueden ayudar en el dia a dia (o sea, este blog!).

Cosa Buena 2: Mi cuerpo es interesante

Quizá es porque estoy estudiando para un bachiller de ciencia, pero la curiosidad nunca es tan mala como algunos creen. Tu cuerpo es en realidad fascinante para varios doctores y expertos de la medicina! La manera en que se comporta y sus muchos misterios son como un elegante rompecabezas, un enigma para que ellos observen y resuelvan.

Ahora, no te vendas a la ciencia, a menos que en serio lo desees. Encuentra dinero en otro sitio.Siempre me cuestionaba por que mi cuerpo se comportaba de este modo hasta que me di cuenta que lo que sentía, cómo lo sentía y cuando tenía constancia, casi de reloj. La manera en que tu cuerpo se opera a sí mismo es altamente interesante, investigar en el asunto no reventara su cerebro, pero te puede llevar a preguntarte algo o más acerca de tu cuerpo y de porqué hace lo que hace.

Quizá googlear o leer unos cuantos artículos de esto te ayudará en tu viaje con los demás. Pronto les enseñaré las mejores técnicas para investigar tu condición en un nuevo post!

Solo cierra tus ojos por un momentos y enfócate en cada parte de tu cuerpo, una por una. Piensa en algo bueno que todos ellos hicieron hoy: tus pies de llevaron a tomar desayuno en la mañana, tu manos sostuvieron tu libro favorito, tus ojos miraron una buena película, tu boca te ayudo a comer tu almuerzo, etc.Cada acción que parezca insignificante es increíble y debería celebrarse. Quiérete por eso!

Cosa Mala 3: Mi cuerpo es feo

El patito feo nunca se sintió tan feo. Ahora no solo tenía que lidiar con sus piernas gruesas que no entraban en esos horribles pantalones entallados, o el pequeño bulto que sobresale de su estómago donde, sorpresa, hay órganos importantes ahí! De repente, su baja confianza en sí misma también tomó un giro de 360 grados, pues regreso al mismo lugar, solo que en una perspectiva distinta. Su cuerpo ahora tenía otras razones por las cuales no era lindo, como las articulaciones anormalmente inflamadas, los dedos atorados como garras, o la constante sube y baja de peso que pasó por la falta de ejercicio.

La artritis y otras condiciones reumáticas a veces te hacen sentir terrible a cerca de tu apariencia. Cuidarla a veces ya no es una prioridad, o incluso puede ser desafiante. Tienes que elegir atuendos, usar zapatos incómodos, o no tener suficiente espacio en tu bolso o bolsillos (lo dire: los bolsillos de mujer son horribles!) para cargar tu medicina alrededor. El maquillaje también puede ser dañino para tu piel enrojecida por la inflamación, o tu cabello se podría caer por la medicina que tomes.

Y no hablemos de la rasuradora. Evitemoslo por nuestro propio bien.

Pero todos merecemos sentirnos lindos, al menos de vez en cuando. Ahora no me importa que me digan: puedo parecer un desastre pero de todas maneras me sentiré hermosa, todos los días. Porque mi cuerpo es mi casa, me cuida y yo lo cuido. Merece consentimientos y los proveeré de vez en cuando.

Cosa Buena 3: Mi cuerpo es hermoso

Ahora repitamos el ejercicio que acabamos de hacer, ahora abre tus ojos. Mirate al espejo, observa todo lo que eres, cada curva y cada detalle y imperfección. Di una cosa buena acerca de cada cosa. Mira esos ojos! Mira este peinado! Qué estilo! Mira esos hombros! Que fuerte! Y sigue asi.

El cuerpo de nadie es perfecto, y tratar de lucir listo para la portada de una revista todos los días no vale la pena. Pero por favor ten la oportunidad de probar cosas nuevas (o usadas) que te hagan sentir bien, lindo y con confianza todo el dia!

Así que si ves un vestido lindo que te gusta y lo puedes pagar, hazlo! Serás despampanante a donde vayas. Viste una camisa que te gusta y está a la venta? Consíguela! Te verás genial, tan cool.Pista: habrá un nuevo post acerca de tips de cómo encontrar y usar ropa adecuada para personas con artritis. Luchando con ese cierre cada mañana es un problema mayor! Detente!

Cosa Mala 4: Mi cuerpo no se va a curar

Como ya lo discute, nadie sabe por qué la artritis existe, y debido a eso, nadie sabe cómo se va y porqué. Quizá tenga que ver con el estrés. Quizá tenga algo que ver con las condiciones medioambientales o el estilo de vida. Quien sabe.

Pero eso no significa que debes perder la esperanza tan fácilmente. Si, algunos de nosotros han tenido esta condición por cinco, diez, quizá hasta treinta años, y sigue ahí. Pero el lugar de la artritis en nuestros cuerpos no es permanente, lo juro por Yuval Harari (uno de mis autores favoritos de todos los tiempos).

Puedes apostar todo lo que quieras que cuando menos te des cuenta, esta conocida sin invitación se desvanecerá, y tu serás libre al fin. Solo asegúrate de hacer tu trabajo y ser amable contigo mismo, tomar tus medicinas, comer saludablemente (al menos trata), haz algo de ejercicio, educate y a otros, ayuda a los que lo necesitan, etc.

Cosa Buena 4: Mi cuerpo se va a mejorar

Lo hará y lo está haciendo. Yas.

Yo a veces me siento abrumada por el balance que debo poner en mis prioridades y asegurarse de no sobre trabajar cuando me estoy mejorando de una crisis. La ironía: a veces trabajamos demasiado en mejorarnos. Leemos demasiado, investigando sin fin. Tratamos tantas dietas diferentes y jugos detox, esperando que uno sea la llave maestra de la artritis. Vamos a tantas cursos de yoga, tratamientos naturistas y muchas otras cosas más.

Estar emocionado de estar saludable es importante, es un buen comienzo. Pero no te aloques tratando de encontrar una cura que quizá ni siquiera puedas comprar o poner en un jugo detox. En vez de eso, confía en tu cuerpo. Sabe lo que hace, la mayoría del tiempo. Se sanará a sí mismo de la única manera que sabe cómo: comiendo, durmiendo, tomando agua, descansando y pidiendo cosas. Muchas cosas. Ya viene el siguiente post de cómo alistar un kit anti-artritis.

Mejorarse a veces parece una montaña rusa: a veces subimos, a veces caemos en picada de 20 metros en el cielo hacia el duro suelo. La gravedad es dura.Pero sabes lo que trato de decir. Las cosas a veces no son fáciles, y a veces no podemos controlar todo o saber qué hacer en ciertas situaciones. Por eso debes pedir ayudar. De tus padres o cuidadores, de tu doctor y de tus amigos. Construye un círculo protector alrededor tuyo para que siempre tengas a alguien sosteniendo tu espalda- a veces literalmente.

La artritis no es una caminata en el parque, pero otras condiciones reumáticas tampoco lo son. Son trabajos de tiempo completo que debemos realizar, pero no somos malos. No estamos enfermos. No somos débiles, feos, raros. Y definitivamente no vamos a sentarnos y escucharte decirnos eso. Porque tenemos cosas más importantes que hacer, y no nos podría importar menos lo que otros tengan que decir al respecto, o que digan de nuestro progreso. Sabemos lo que valemos y celebramos nuestros cuerpos en la mejor manera posible: tratándolo bien, con respeto, dignidad, amor y coraje.

Ama para que puedas amar. Nos vemos!

También me encantaría compartir con ustedes este grupo de familias en Kampala con niños con discapacidades en Ndagire Ritah @ritandagire76 en Instagram. Por favor copien y peguen su username y digan hola! Donen si pueden! Es por una buena causa!

[aion-rsa]

Does Silent Hill 2 Have a True Ending?

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Silent Hill 2’s legacy has only grown in the 20 years since its release. While Konami’s follow-up to one of the best horror games of the PS1 era was a critical hit out of the gate, it’s taken years for people to fully grasp the brilliance of Silent Hill 2’s atmosphere, characters, and story. 

Silent Hill 2 casts players in the role of James Sunderland: a mysterious man who receives a letter from his deceased wife that asks him to come and find her in the town of Silent Hill. What follows is a haunting trip through the town itself that eventually leads us to one of the most shocking revelations in video game history: most of Silent Hill’s horrors are manifestations of James’ psyche born from his guilt over killing his sick wife.

How that story ends is really up to the player. There are six endings in Silent Hill 2, and which one you see is determined by your actions in the game and how they supposedly reflect James’ mentality. It’s a brilliant storytelling device that not only intelligently weaves the title’s gameplay into the narrative but suggests that players ultimately receive the ending they “deserve” based on their actions. 

However, fans have often wondered whether or not Silent Hill 2 has a “canonical” ending. While it’s fantastic that the game is open to so many interpretations, the fact that Silent Hill 2 is also the second entry in a beloved horror franchise has triggered a 20-year debate over which of the game’s six conclusions truly belong to the canon. 

Officially, Silent Hill 2 has no canonical ending. Writer Hiroyuki Owaku and other members of the team have either not answered questions regarding SIlent Hill 2’s canonical conclusion, or they’ve “dodged” the question by suggesting the canonical ending is the one you see.

Yet, a closer look at Silent Hill 2’s various finales reveals that the debate over the game’s canonical ending is less about needing a definitive answer to this question and is more about celebrating the various ways that so many of these endings offer distinctly different, yet equally satisfying, possible answers to the question “What became of James Sunderland?”

Silent Hill 2’s “Dog” and “UFO” Endings Are Just Fun Jokes

Silent Hill 2’s two “joke” endings are pretty easy to dismiss in any discussion of possible canonical conclusions. 

The “Dog” ending suggests that a dog has been controlling pretty much everything that happens to James in Silent Hill 2, while the UFO ending sees James abducted by aliens (with help from the original Silent Hill’s protagonist, Harry Mason). They’re really little more than Easter eggs meant to reward extremely dedicated players.

Granted, a UFO ending was also featured in the original Silent Hill, but given that this ending wasn’t even added to the sequel until subsequent ports and re-releases, there’s really no way it should be considered anything but a gag.

Silent Hill 2’s “Rebirth” Ending Offers a Haunting Possibility Straight Out of a Stephen King Novel

Silent Hill 2’s “Rebirth” ending sees James kill the mutated form of his wife Mary and then take Mary’s body to the Church of Rebirth at the center of a lake. This ending is triggered by beating the game once and finding four special items during your next playthrough. 

The ending itself is narratively fascinating. On a very basic level, it suggests that the items James found convinced him that it’s possible to bring his wife back to life. Given how resurrection typically works in horror (and considering that one of the books James finds as part of this ending bears a striking resemblance to Pet Semetary’s lore), we can only assume that this resurrection went terribly wrong (if it worked at all).

However, the bigger takeaway from this ending has less to do with the idea that James might actually resurrect Mary and more to do with the idea that James himself has essentially succumbed to madness. Whether or not Mary is brought back to life and whether or not James finds his way back from the church is seemingly less important than the idea that James’ decision to go to the church in the first place means he is lost and hasn’t really learned the right lessons from his time in the town.

So far as the canon goes, “Rebirth” is kind of a tough sell. Silent Hill’s “original” three endings (the ones you can see during your first playthrough) are all based on the player’s gameplay actions and what they tell us about James’ psyche. From that standpoint, it’s difficult to say what the idea of “beating” the game is supposed to represent and what the narrative explanation for these new items being added to the game during a second playthrough really is.

While some games hide their “true” or complete endings behind requirements such as beating the game once, this particular conclusion feels closer to a “What if?” scenario designed to be seen by dedicated fans rather than the ending you’re necessarily meant to find in order to see how the game really ends.

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Silent Hill 2’s “Maria” Ending Offers the Game’s Most Ambiguous Conclusion

Silent Hill 2’s “Maria” ending is the first of the endings we’ll talk about that can actually be seen during your initial playthrough. It’s also one of the game’s strangest and most complicated conclusions. 

To see Silent Hill 2’s “Maria” ending, you have to be very nice to Maria (a character you find in the town who looks a lot like James’ wife and even has some of her memories) throughout the game. Along with performing specific actions at specific times (such as visiting Maria in the hospital as many times as possible) you also have to make sure that you don’t lead Maria astray for long or allow her to take excessive damage. 

Do everything right, and your “reward” is an ending that sees James and Maria meet after the final boss battle. Maria gives James a letter from Mary in which Mary essentially acknowledges how her illness has damaged their relationship and expresses her complex feeling regarding that fracture. James and Maria then decide to leave the town together, but Maria starts coughing in a way that strongly suggests that she has the same disease that Mary had when she died. 

This is…a weird one. The simplest read suggests that the player’s actions towards Maria are intended to convey James’ growing feelings (obsession?) towards her and that this ending shows that the two finally get together. The cough could be interpreted as a bad thing (James has to watch someone he loves suffer again and may end up killing her), but maybe this is actually James getting a second chance to do the right thing and find redemption and forgiveness for himself by better handling this hardship. 

However, that theory is complicated by the fact it’s strongly suggested Maria isn’t actually “real” and is instead a manifestation of James’ conscious (like so many other things in the town). That interpretation is admittedly further complicated by the game’s supplementary “Born From A Wish” chapter which shows Maria on her own adventure without James, but there is still enough evidence to support the general idea that the Maria we know is not just an entirely “normal” person in the physical sense. 

As such, it seems more likely that this ending is indeed meant to convey how James has not moved on from what happened to Mary and will continue to punish himself by either going through it yet again or leaving with the knowledge he will never, could never, and perhaps should never forgive himself for what he did. That interpretation is supported by Maria’s generally villainous nature and the idea that she, in some way, is less of a version of Mary waiting to be saved and more of a representation of James’ guilt over Mary’s death combined with his repressed sexual urges that make her more symbolic of James’ desire for Mary as he wants to remember her rather than the person she necessarily was (especially at the end).  

This ending does fit the grander ideas of Silent Hill 2’s narrative and gameplay/storytelling relationship, so it’s not quite as easy to dismiss it outright like we can with the other conclusions we’ve discussed so far. At the same time, this ending’s incredibly ambiguous nature (from both a thematic and narrative standpoint) raises serious questions and what happens next and how our perception of those events is intended to affect our perception of future Silent Hill games. 

While that ambiguity makes this one of the game’s most memorable endings (and the ending itself is a satisfying overall conclusion to the game in a lot of ways), it is interesting to see how the next two finales offer something that feels slightly more definitive. 

Silent Hill 2’s “Leave” Ending Is The Closest This Game Comes to a Traditional Happy Ending

Silent Hill 2’s “Leave” ending can be seen by doing all you can to demonstrate a will to live and desire to come to terms with what James did. That means you have to keep your health high, avoid becoming obsessed with Maria, and take time to pay Mary the proper respect through acknowledging her pain as well as your own. 

If you make the right decisions, you’ll eventually encounter a figure you believe to be Mary who is actually Maria. Soon thereafter, Maria literally turns into a monster who James must kill. After doing so, James “meets” Mary again and the two have a pretty nuanced conversation about what James did and whether or not he should continue to live his life burdened by the incredible guilt of it. We then cut to a cemetery, listen to Mary narrate the letter she left James, and watch as James and Laura (a girl he met in Silent Hill) walk through a cemetery.

For all intents and purposes, this is Silent Hill 2’s “good” ending, which is noteworthy not only because it’s the game’s only clear good ending (depending on your interpretations) but because other Silent Hill game’s “canonical” endings are typically variations of their good endings. 

It’s also very much worth noting that there are hints throughout Silent Hill 2 that suggest James is not somehow “doomed” to be punished for the rest of his life. Indeed, there are multiple points in the game where it’s strongly implied that James is indeed seeking redemption and can achieve it if he is able to find a way to forgive himself while still demonstrating atonement and a will to live. Well, that’s what the player must do to trigger this ending. 

The Laura factor is also interesting. A popular theory suggests that Laura is one of the only “real” people in Silent Hill 2 and that she doesn’t view the town as a punishment. Indeed, it’s implied that she doesn’t see any of the horrors in the town and may instead see it as a joyful, rewarding place. If Laura is a manifestation of James’ psyche, then it’s strongly implied that she could be seen as the daughter that he and Mary never had. In either case, Laura seems to represent innocence, possibilities, and the start of something new. 

Furthermore, it’s been said that Elee from Silent Hill: Homecoming was originally supposed to be an older version of Laura who was going to wear James’ jacket. That would tend to suggest that the Homecoming team may have considered building upon the ending in which Laura and James escaped (though that isn’t the only possibility that would help explain how Laura got the jacket). 

Speaking of sequels, it should also be noted that Silent Hill 4 features a brief scene with Frank Sunderland (James’ father) who says that his son “disappeared in Silent Hill a few years back.” While it’s possible that James never went to see his dad again following the events of Silent Hill 2, a more popular interpretation of that statement suggests that James simply never made it out of the town. That brings us to the game’s final ending…

Silent Hill 2’s “In Water” Ending is The Most Commonly Accepted Canonical Conclusion

Silent Hill 2’s In Water ending is reserved for players who quite simply demonstrate self-destructive tendencies. If you don’t try to heal yourself quickly, consistently take massive amounts of damage, and generally fail to exhibit the desire to achieve forgiveness, then you’ll be “treated” to a haunting ending in which James essentially remembers that he came to Silent Hill to kill himself. He then drowns himself in the lake in the hopes of rejoining his wife in the afterlife.

Let’s not beat around the bush: there are numerous pieces of evidence that suggest this is the strongest contender for Silent Hill 2’s “canonical ending.” Here are just a few:

The novelization of Silent Hill 2 uses the “In Water” ending (though there is some debate regarding how much the author knew about the project’s development and what Silent Hill 2‘s writers intended). 

“In Water” is the only ending that features a shot of James carrying Mary that is prominently featured in Silent Hill 2’s instruction manual and promo art.

Members of the Silent Hill 2 team (including designer Masahiro Ito and James’ voice actor Guy Chi) have previously indicated that they view this as the true (or at least their prefered) ending. 

Pyramid Head was reportedly designed with the context of the “In Water” ending in mind.

Water is featured prominently throughout the game as both a form of punishment and escape/”redemption.”

It’s been suggested that James’ took Mary’s body to Silent Hill with him and intended to commit the act of Shinjū (a ritualistic form of double suicide).

This ending explains why James’ father says he never returned from Silent Hill.

This is the ending that many players see their first time playing the game and is therefore the ending that many people associate with the game if they didn’t intentionally try to acquire additional/alternative endings. 

Put it all together, and you really start to see why so many people have suggested that “In Water” is the most logical Silent Hill 2 ending even if it isn’t necessarily the ending that has been officially adopted as canonical. Nearly everything about it from a narrative and thematic standpoint mesh with the events of the game, Harry’s psychological state, and what few direct connections Silent Hill 2 has to the rest of the series.

Furthermore, there is evidence that suggests the team didn’t necessarily see this as an entirely sad ending. That’s a very fine line to walk given that I do not want to glorify James’ decision to kill himself, but what we know about the creative motivation behind this ending strongly implies that this idea was based less on the belief that the town defeated James and more on the thought that this was simply a fitting conclusion to what James had just gone through.

At the same time, I do find it interesting that it’s suggested James drove to Silent Hill to commit suicide but James actually says during the game that he doesn’t believe in suicide. He could have been lying, forgot why he came, or simply changed his mind due to his experiences/mental state, but it is one of those factors that complicates the idea that this ending offers a clean explanation for everything that happens before.

Which Silent Hill 2 Ending is Canonical?

If it comes down to it, I would also have to agree that “In Water” feels like Silent Hill 2’s most appropriate, complete, and overall fascinating ending. If you were going to make an argument for which ending fits into the canon most cleanly, that and “Leave” would probably be the easiest to support.

At the same time, it’s very much worth emphasizing that the game’s lack of a canonical ending in the traditional sense of the term has always been intentional. Most of Silent Hill 2’s endings are based on the choices you make as James and how those choices supposedly represent your own psychology as well as your character’s psychology. While the unique post-game nature of the Dog/UFO and “Rebirth” endings arguably make them harder to accept as canonical for that reason, “In Water,” “Maria,” and “Leave” all offer fascinating interpretations of what happens to James based on your actions and decisions. 

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Of course, it is also interesting to think that so many people seem to remember getting the “In Water” ending the first time they played the game. While that probably has something to do with how closely that ending is related to taking damage and performing more obvious actions (things that you can expect to happen in survival horror games) maybe the fact that “In Water” seems to be one of the easiest endings to “accidentally” get tells us something about how the developers suspected our Silent Hill 2 journey would end. 

The post Does Silent Hill 2 Have a True Ending? appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[veliusthewanderer]

My Most Rage-Filled Rant EVER!

As I’m writing this, nearly a month has passed since the Capitol Hill riots which took the lives of 5 people, injured dozens more and very likely contributed to the greatest Covid-19 spread in the new year, I feel a need to make my feelings known. I also have to make clear that not everyone who is a conservative is going to get the full fury of my rant. Hence, I decided to break this down into two sections. The first will be addressed to those conservatives who might’ve supported Trump until the Riots happened, then turned their backs on him. I’ll even address those who may have abandoned Trump well before the events of January 6. I will be dignified, respectful, and compassionate. The second part will be broken down for three groups, and here I will not be so merciful, so if you offend easily, you may wish to stop reading now.To the first group, now that you’ve seen how Trump behaved during the last four years, and up to the dreadful day where 70,000 people stormed the Capitol on his orders to stop the election certification, do you have any regrets backing him back in 2016? You likely have turned your back on him and even denounced him. The first step to handling any problem is acknowledging that you have a problem, and its never easy to do so, especially in a time where emotions continue to run high as a result of the most contentious election that this country ever had. You no doubt have family, co-workers, friends, lovers who have all but ostracized you for your decision to abandon ‘the cause’. As hard as this will be to read, at this point these people should be considered lost causes. No matter how much factual information you try to provide them, they will never accept it. Instead of trying to rehabilitate them, its better to cast them adrift and let them stew in their disgust. You may feel like you need to keep a line of communication open-and that’s certainly your choice-but you run the risk of inflaming the resentments to a point in which the outcome will not be a good one, so if you choose to keep a line open, always approach the topic slowly. For many in my own inner circle-family mostly, there may never be a way to bridge the gulf of misunderstanding. As much as I would love to open their eyes to the damage Trump has done, its never going to break the hypnotic trance he’s put them in. For you, its enough to know you aren’t alone in not knowing how to handle the division. You took a big chance in condemning Trump even if only because of his role in the Insurrection and for that you have my never-ending admiration and respect. I personally will not shame you for the prior support you gave to Trump because you honestly didn’t know what kind of person he truly was. I will apologize if I have put you in the crosshairs with your colleagues who still adore Trump, but you needed to know that I do not hold a grudge against you for whatever prior support you showed him.Now that I’ve addressed the first group and offered them my moral support, its time to address the lost causes out there. I must insist again that if you’re easily offended by the slightest truth, then you need to stop reading because the gloves are about to come off. I will be addressing three particular groups in this second half: the rioters (assuming they haven’t been arrested already), the co-conspirators in Congress (all GOP, by the way) and lastly, the people who while not directly involved in the Insurrection continue to espouse the Big Lie that Trump was cheated. I will be sure to break my rage-rant down, but all will start with the same opening line. I will also remind you that as my identity has not nor will ever be revealed, there is no point in posting death-threats. However, if you insist on doing so, I WILL report them to Tumblr and the police.

- To the rioters who have yet to be arrested:

HOW DARE YOU!! How dare you attempt an insurrection against a lawfully elected government on the basis of a BS claim by your ‘Great Leader’ Trump. You claim to be fighting against ‘communism’ yet you’re willing to enact a fascist dictatorship because you’re frightened of the alternative. This is a DEMOCRACY, and in a democracy there are winners and losers. Those who lost have an opportunity in four years-unless they’ve already had two presidential terms-to run again. Had Trump not incited 70,000 people to storm the Capitol with calls to hang Mike Pence and Nancy Pelosi, then half-heartedly attempted to stop the rioting, he could’ve had his chance again in 2024. Because of your actions and his role, he will very likely NEVER run for political office again. The fact that many of you who participated in the Insurrection were military veterans is the most damning thing about this situation. You fought against fascism, you were on guard against communist insurgency, you defended this country from Islamic extremism, yet you were willing to march in lockstep with a soon-to-be ex-President Trump to install a dictatorship because you bought into the Big Lie. You should not only be ashamed of yourself, but you should be stripped of any medals and commendations you earned in your career. Another point to make, and one I will repeat throughout the rest of this rage-rant, the fact that 5 people died during the insurrection. 5 people that shouldn’t have had to die. Four of the deaths were rioters and at least one of them was a military veteran. One police officer who did his duty to hold off the mob also died. You may think you did your patriotic duty by making your outrage known, but that is no consolation to the families of the people who died. They died because you wanted Trump to seize power and stop a legal election process. If the very thought that their families will now have to celebrate birthdays, Holidays, anniversaries and other happy occasions without them doesn’t make you feel guilty and ashamed, then you are not patriotic at all, only cold-hearted and stupid

-To the GOP traitors who abetted the Trump Insurrection:

HOW DARE YOU!! How dare you aid a would-be dictator to overturn the results of a legal election. You not only bought into the Big Lie, you promoted it within your offices. You even ran on the Big Lie and-somehow-won. Case in point is Marjorie Taylor Green, the woman known for her QAnon videos. She was on record as suggesting execution of Democrat leaders would be the only way to end the ‘pedophilia ring, Deep State system’ that she claimed was working against Trump. But its not just Green. Josh Hawley of Missouri and Ted Cruz of Texas were the loudspeakers for the Big Lie, and even after the Capitol had finally been cleared of the rioters, insisted on objecting to the electoral results even knowing the objections were based on false claims and would not be considered. Even now, they remain committed to the Big Lie and have already begun their effort to obstruct President Biden’s agenda which can help ALL Americans regardless of political views, particularly where the pandemic is concerned. They would rather see Americans suffer with disease, loss of jobs, foreclosure, eviction because they still believe Biden is illegitimate and Trump is the rightful winner, than to assist in improving the conditions the pandemic has left and continues to leave in its wake. I make this warning clear: we will remember what you did when 2022 comes and you’re up for re-election. This goes for the other 137 House GOP and 13 Senate GOP who participated in Trump’s attempted coup and in some cases (Mo Brooks of Alabama) even fired up the rioters just before the Insurrection began. I should also remind you that the blood of 5 people coats your hands, and that the families of those 5 souls lost on that terrible day will never forgive you for your role in it. Shame on you and may you rot in eternal damnation.

-Finally, to those who still believe Trump won:

SHAME ON YOU!!

You, who spread the Big Lie around social media. You who couldn’t be bothered to actually research some new claim before spreading it around because it came from a ‘trusted source’ such as a family member, close friend, co-worker, fellow churchgoer, even ‘news’ outlets like F*X News, OANN, and Newsmax. You like to tell those who challenge your information that they refuse to question ‘facts’ and buy into whatever CNN or ABC News says. The cold truth is, it is YOU that refuse to fact-check. Whether its because you believe the source or because the idea that the alternate fact is in fact a bald-faced lie scares you doesn’t matter. It was because of you that 70,000 people went to Washington DC, listened to the fiery orations of Trump, Don Jt., Giuliani, and Brooks, then marched with the intention to take hostages, even execute government officials all for the purpose of making sure Trump won his second term. It’s because of you that Marjorie Taylor Green is now a congresswoman and still-despite her claims otherwise-attached to QAnon. It is because of you that there is division in this country that may or may not ever be truly healed despite the best efforts of the new POTUS. Worst of all, it may very well be you that keeps us locked down in a pandemic that your so-called ‘saviour’ had the power to defeat but instead chose to sit on his butt and dismiss as a novelty that would magically go away. If you’re already thinking of sending hate posts in response to this, I can only see it as your continued refusal to come to reality and accept that your Great Leader lost the election, lost his numerous court battles to save his legacy, and ultimately failed to forcefully overturn the legitimate results of an election that was already contentious before Covid-19 changed the rules. You are a lost cause and should henceforth be treated as such. And if you went to Washington DC to participate in the rally-turned-insurrection and have found yourself hence without a job, ostracized by friends and family, then you deserve it. You cannot blame the “libtards” for costing you your job, costing you your love life, costing you respect. You ultimately have only yourself to blame. You might as well hide in the basement, stick your fingers in your ears and hum as loud as possible for the next four years because like it or not, Biden is now the POTUS

[dailyironfamily]

day 21 - noir au

Day twenty-one of the November Fic Challenge is a noir AU! In a creative interpretation of the prompt, this is an Iron Man Noir Pepper/Tony/Rhodey fic, set post series and featuring the outside POV trope and detective Natasha Romanoff. (I have no idea if she appears in any of the other Noir comics, but if she does, pretend she didn’t.)

Natasha Romanoff is the best in the business. She knows it, everyone else knows it. (At least everyone else in the know, which is very few people indeed.) But when you want information, you come to her. Which is why she isn’t surprised to see General Fury in her office one evening, following the news of adventurer Tony Stark’s latest exploits.

Stark was home in New York, hospitalized after his latest venture that ended destroying a whole Nazi air fleet, though the details were still hush hush. The details that weren’t published in the latest issue of Marvels, at least, and Natasha knows how these things get embellished. Obviously Fury’s interest in the man has something to do with that, and the news that Stark is going to quit the magazine.

Fury wants a profile on Stark before he brings him in on any classified military intelligence, and Natasha promises to get one done within the week. The first day is research, pulling old newspaper clippings and magazine articles. Stark’s got quite the list of achievements, an industrial legacy left by his father on top of his own adventures. His partner in crime is a man by the name of James Rhodes, who features heavily in the latest Marvels article, which in turn is written by a Pepper Potts, a journalist who normally writes under the name Frank Finlay. These two, and perhaps ex-pilot Edwin Jarvis, are her best way in.

Stark’s still in the hospital, so Natasha makes that her first priority. Getting her hands on a nurse’s uniform is easy, and she blends in seamlessly, stopping at a nurse’s station outside Stark’s room so she can keep an eye on him. The floor is quiet today, and Stark only has one visitor―the Potts woman. She and Stark talk quietly, nothing of interest, at least to Natasha. At one point Potts sees her pass by the door, but only stops her to ask for more water.

When Natasha returns with a fresh pitcher, Pepper is sitting on the edge of Stark’s bed, holding one of his hands in her lap. Natasha stops short, surveying the scene. From what she understands, Potts is a new acquisition to the team, writing only one story after the unfortunate death of Stark’s previous chronicler. Apparently not even a formidable writer like Potts can resist the supposed Stark charm.

“You don’t have to come,” Stark say quietly, fingers brushing over Potts’s wrist. “The front’s no place for a lady.”

“Do I look like a lady, Mr. Stark?” Potts says with a laugh. “Even if you don’t need me as a writer, you could use someone to keep you in line.”

“Then what on Earth would Jarvis have left to do?”

“Patch you up,” Potts suggests, reaching up to gently brush a finger over the bandage on Stark’s nose. “You seem to need it a lot.”

“Which brings me back to my original point. It’ll be dangerous, this job Fury’s got.”

“I’m no stranger to danger, Mr. Stark. I can take care of myself.”

Stark lets go of her hand and reaches for the glass on his bedside table, which is Natasha’s cue to walk into the room with the pitcher. She doesn’t meet either of their eyes, though she does take the opportunity to check Stark’s medical chart before ducking out so she can get a sense of when he’ll be released from the hospital.

Stark spends his first few days out of the hospital presumably preparing to go back out to Europe. Natasha switches wigs, picks up a pair of glasses, and meets with a secretary friend of hers who works at Stark Industries. Security in this place is atrocious, and she’d tell Fury to inform Stark of that fact if it wasn’t working out so well in her favor.

James Rhodes comes in every day to meet with Stark, and while most of the time they’re hidden away in Stark’s office, Natasha catches them in the hall late one evening when most of the employees have already gone home.

“Look,” Stark says, voice low. He and Rhodes are around the corner, and Natasha presses close to the wall and listens. “Before all this, you were talking about quitting. And I get it, we’ve had some good times and some absolutely terrible times. I can’t in good conscience keep putting you in danger if you truly wish to leave.”

It’s interesting, Natasha notes, that Stark seems determined to push his friends away when he could use their help. All of them seem the sort inclined to run towards danger instead of away from it.

“Tony...” Rhodes replies, and there’s a pause. “Honestly, I probably should. But if you’re intent on doing some good for the world, like you said, I can’t leave your side.”

“Pepper wants to come too,” Stark says.

“To report?”

“To keep me in line.”

Rhodes chuckles. “I thought that was Jarvis’s job.”

There’s another silence, longer this time, and Natasha risks peeking her head around the corner. Only to quickly whip back around, though she’s confident neither of them saw her, considering they were awfully busy kissing each other. Well, so much for her theory that Stark was sweet on Potts. She hopes Potts knows that too, or things could get messy if Stark can convince Fury to let him bring his whole team along on whatever secret mission he’s proposed.

Determining nothing else of value is left to gain here, Natasha silently slips away, leaving the two men to their own private business.

Stark has a party the following week celebrating his latest Marvels adventure, because of course he does. Natasha goes blonde and picks out a low cut dress to draw attention away from her face. Potts and Rhodes are both there, though it seems Jarvis declined to attend. Natasha will have to look into this mysterious Jarvis herself soon, at this rate.

As parties go, it’s certainly nice, lots of good food and rich socialites. The editor of Marvels is there too, and he spends most of his time keeping Stark distracted begging him to stay with the magazine. The party gives her the perfect opportunity to go around and casually gossip about Stark while keeping an eye on him. Stark is a gracious host, and he’s perfectly polite to everyone, even the Marvels man, who Natasha would have gotten annoyed with in under three minutes herself.

Late in the evening, as the party winds down, she sees Rhodes and Potts slip away together, going out into the gardens. Intrigued, Natasha follows them, the foliage giving her plenty of cover to eavesdrop.

“Don’t tell me,” Rhodes is saying to something Pepper had asked as Natasha gets closer, “he’s trying to get you to stay behind too.”

“Of course.” Potts sounds slightly frustrated, not the confident, cocky woman Natasha is used to hearing. “He’s really enough of an idiot to do this alone, and after that talk we had.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That I was going with him, of course. I assume you did the same.”

Rhodes doesn’t reply, but Potts doesn’t say anything else either, so Natasha assumes he nodded or gave some other indication of assent. The pair move deeper into the garden, and Natasha waits a moment to follow.

“You’ve already had one bad run-in with the Nazis,” Rhodey says, and Natasha moves so she can see them, the two sitting on a stone bench by an elaborate fountain that slightly drowns out their words. “You sure you want to risk another?”

“Oh, not you too,” Potts mutters, “I’m not―”

Natasha can’t hear the rest, and she frowns and moves around a bunch of bushes, trying to find a better position. When she looks back through the leaves at the fountain, Potts is kissing Rhodes, one of his hands clasped between hers like she’d held Stark’s hand in the hospital.

Honestly, this is not the kind of drama Natasha expected to find when she started trailing Stark.

And it’s certainly not the kind of information Fury would be interested in. She sighs and draws back around the bushes, debating what to do. If Stark brings Potts and Rhodes with him on the Latveria mission, all that matters is that they can function as a team and get the job done. That could still very well be the case, but...Stark’s paramour making time with his pretty journalist (Natasha still hasn’t determined Stark’s feelings in that regard) behind his back does not create a conducive work environment.

She should’ve just closed the door in Fury’s face and told him to go somewhere else.

In the end, the file she deposits on Fury’s desk doesn’t contain anything about any illicit affairs on anyone’s part. She keeps the focus on Stark, writes up an evaluation that paints him as a loyal patriot, and recommends him for the Latveria job. Along with his team. Fury squints at her like he doesn’t believe any of it, but Natasha just shrugs and tells him if he doesn’t like her work, he can hire someone else.

Apparently, Fury was banking on a favorable report, because Stark, Rhodes, and Potts are outside his office as she exits. There’s an older man with them, who Natasha assumes is the mysterious Jarvis. Stark just nods at her as she walks past, but Potts stops talking to Jarvis and says,

“Wait a minute, wasn’t that the nurse from the hospital?”

Natasha grins and doesn’t stop walking.

Natasha sees them again, three years later. She’s in London between missions, as Fury, goddamn him, had somehow swayed her away from her private practice and into his employ. To her surprise, Stark and his crew are seated at a table in the very same bar, looking somewhat worse for the wear but in astonishingly good spirits.

Jarvis gets up to get them more drinks, and Natasha watches carefully from her corner seat, curious despite herself how things had played out. They’re all clearly still friendly, so if Stark had discovered their deception, he didn’t take it too poorly.

Potts laughs at something he says, reaching over and setting her hand atop of Stark’s on the table. He flips his hand over, entwining their fingers, and Natasha frowns around the rim of her glass. Perhaps Stark had found out and was willing to overlook their indiscretion, fond as he seemingly still is for Potts.

Stark leans back in his chair, stretching his other arm over his head, and when he sets it down it’s across the back of Rhodes’s chair, fingers brushing against Rhodes’s shoulder. Rhodes, instead of getting annoyed, leans into the touch, and Natasha’s eyes go wide as the revelation hits her.

Nobody was stepping out on anyone. Lord, is she an idiot. It’s a good thing she didn’t put anything about this in Stark’s file, Fury would have to fire her on the spot.

Well, she muses as she downs the remains of her beer in one long draught, at least everything worked out all right for everyone.

[ya-boi-hawkeye]

Mortality

a super self indulgent thing that i wrote for the LOADed With Sin AU. set way into the future, like idk i was just feeling sort of melancholy and thinking about what it means to be a droid surrounded by organic friends

“Hey Red.” B2 Battle Droid XK-2561-JS00241—Red, it had been nicknamed, on account of the splotches of rusted metal from being stored in less than ideal circumstances—twisted slightly to acknowledge the presence of it’s Captain. “Mind some company?”

“I am always appreciative of your technical expertise, Captain.” Red answered blandly, handing over the precision tools.

Nia gave him a speculative look at that, hooking her foot around a stool to drag it over. “I’m pretty sure if you’re looking for technical expertise, Loeb would be the one you want.”

“Perhaps.” Red admitted. “But the hairballs have a tendency to clog up my intake ports.”

“Ooh, someone’s in a mood.” She teased. “What are we working on today?”

“Increasing optimal efficiency.” Red answered. “There is a .02% lag in computational commands versus output in my internal weaponry.”

“Not 0.02%.” Nia gasped, pulling the primary firing limb closer to her. “Think of what that could cost us.”

“You are mocking me.” Red answered reproachfully. “What an organic thing to do.”

The smile she gave him was quick and warm, reaching up to her eyes and creating creases in them. There were more than when they’d first met, when she’d accidentally powered it on while hiding on the First Order base. Red supposed that inevitably, it too had to show the passage of years that spanned between the two moments, the rust scoured clean, chassis built and rebuilt time and again to account for upgrades and damage.

But whereas the organics that it considered its colleagues began to slow, biologic processes losing efficiency, Red only improved.

“Hey Red?” Nia didn’t look up as she poked around the calibration system of the photon canon in its arm, precision tools moving and testing the wiring. “You ever think about your own mortality?”

The droid’s optical sensors flickered at that, in an expression that might have been construed as surprise. “I am synthetic. I do not decay as you do.”

She didn’t answer for a moment, reconnecting a wire with a jolt of sensory feedback along its processors. “No, that’s true. Your body does, from wear and tear though, otherwise we wouldn’t be here right now would we? What happens if it gets damaged beyond repair?”

“There are fail safes.” It answered slowly. “My cognitive processors shut down, and the hard drive can theoretically be removed and uploaded into a new format.”

“Theoretically?” She questioned. “That makes you effectively immortal. Or at least, much more difficult to kill.”

“Theoretically.” Red repeated. “In practice it is much more difficult. Ideally this is because of my role, as a B2 Battle Droid it was expected that I would be wholly destroyed in battle.”

“You were primarily functional during the first galactic civil war. Before the Empire got its hands on the clone army.”

Red filtered through its memory banks, which stretched back far, far past the decades spent shut down and non-functional. “I recall them. Generals Skywalker and Kenobi.” The images were there, clear as day, played back like security feed. “Across a barren, red landscape, parts of droids scattered around them. It would have been easy to have fallen the same way and then… there would have been nobody to transfer my hard drive.”

Which was unsurprising, and not uncommon. They were droids, after all, a nearly endless resource if one had the money to pay for it; who would bother going through the effort to extract one hard drive, from one fallen droid, when they could just make a hundred more? Even those that were taken for recovery, it was the data that was desired, not the personality protocol of the droid itself. It wasn’t like they were organic, it wasn’t like it had a soul.

Nia did look up at that, a wounded, pinched expression on her face as she watched it. Her eyes were too expressive, Red thought, micro expressions on her face that made her an open book.

Red didn’t need to hear the words to know the argument churning in that gaze; you exist, you matter, you have a soul even if it’s not like mine.

A lesson she’d learned the hard way, it knew, a lesson she was still paying for.

“You could now though, if you wanted. We have the money, we could have a brand new chassis designed for you. State of the art. You could upgrade, and upgrade, and upgrade. You’d be around long after I was dust.”

“Perhaps.” It had crossed the thought processors, that Red would without a doubt outlast them. “But what form would I take? Who would I trust so intimately to recreate myself?”

“Loeb could do it. Or you could ask Rey. Sasha knows a lot about functional cybernetics since she’s a cyborg herself.” Nia pointed out. “Lizandra, I’m sure, if you asked nicely. Hell, she could probably give you some sort of extra-dimensional body. Like, maybe you could become a sick-ass robo-dragon? Or something that, like, can phase through planes of existence? You could go into alternate dimensions.”

“You assume that a form I would desire.” Red flexed its hand as Nia pulled back, setting the tools down and closing the panel. “Running system diagnostics.”

“Okay then, smarty pants, what form would you like?” She rolled her eyes, reaching over to scratch at the seam where her synthetic hand fused to her arm. “Has to be something good if you’re going to outlive the rest of us.”

“Something worthy of respect.” Red decided. “Which is not to imply that the form of Landilizandra is not worthy of respect—” It had seen the damage the dragon-goddess could inflict, it would be unwise to imply any sort of insult. “—But that is not the form I would wish to be rebuilt into. I am a battle droid, it is what I was when we met, and I would not change while any of you remain.”

“You would wish.” She parroted in a stilted voice, no doubt designed to be a mimicry of it’s own auditory output. “Well, you have time at least. I’m pretty sure Ki’da and Loeb are going to outlive us all. Well, except for the kids at least.”

She paused then, looking pensive. “Still, it must be nice, having the option to decide. To have more control over when natural processes take you.”

“But terribly lonely, I should think.” Red mused. “To remain so unchanging, while those you have come to care for age and die.”

“I suppose so.” She sighed, and there was something off about her tone, about the pensive way she frowned at her own hands. “I suppose I’ve been thinking about my own mortality, and the legacy I’ll be leaving behind. If I shouldn’t have done something more.”

The droid didn’t respond, not verbally, but rather it folded its hands together, turning to regard the human.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like this, my life.” She sighed. “I was going to be… something. A pilot? Not like Poe, Poe can fly anything. But I have a mind for tactics, I’m good in the field, I could have been a New Republic soldier. Could have done things right.”

“And then, after, when my head was relatively unfucked and I had the choice to choose what I wanted, I became a pirate. Not a terrible one, not complete scum, but look at me. This isn’t exactly the legacy I imagined leaving for my children.”

“Perhaps not.” Red admitted. “But a legacy is different things to different people. You will be remembered well, by your children who know you love them, and the people you have helped. You will be remembered well by me, for however long I last. That is your legacy. It will be one worth remembering.”

“You always know just what to say.” She smiled.

In the end, Nia had been right. Ki’dara and Loeb had been the last of the original crew to go.

Those doctor types, they’re like cockroaches, hard to kill.

The procession was grand, as under Gomla’s leadership the Void pirates had grown into an armada of massive size, beyond what their mother could have ever imagined.

She would be proud of the legacy she’d left behind, Red thought. Proud of what she had created.

The air was somber, as the bodies were brought in. Wrapped in the finest silks, soaked in the most expensive of wines and encrusted with gold and jewels. It was tradition; a last display of the decadence of a pirate’s life. And they were bound and lain together, in death as in life.

There were few words, spoken primarily by Shian, the heir they left behind, before it was time to see the bodies dealt with.

And that was tradition too, though it didn’t start that way. They would be fed through the engines, bodies burned down to the smallest of particles and launched out into the void of space to drift among the stars. The Captain had been the first to go like that; she had loved the vast expanse of space, and as her spirit returned to the Force from whence it came, so too would her worldly body return to the cosmos which had created it.

It was beautifully poetic, in a way, which is why the others followed suit. To return to the spaces that they had claimed at her side, together in life as in death. And then others followed even after. Generations that didn’t know what the original Void Squadron was, that didn’t know the touch of the civil war, or the First Order, that weren’t born on the bones of a galaxy trying to recover.

Ki’dara and Loeb washed out into the universe in a spray of gold and blue sparks, their passing marked with tears, with stoicism, and the acknowledging burst of a spray of weapons from the rest of the ships gathered. A fitting farewell, to the last of the founders.

And soon, Red knew, would come the proper farewell. The farewell to their memories, to the lives and legacies they left behind, which would be celebrated with alcohol, and camaraderie.

The droid turned away from the viewport, human fingers—human like, different in that they were made from a foreign metal, black and silver, energy lines flowing with red light—curling around the hood of the jacket and pulling it closer.

An upgrade.

It—he? They?—had left behind the old chassis with the last of the original Squad. Effectively immortal, she had said, and that was true in a way. But Red couldn’t go back, couldn’t stay in the body of the B2 Battle Droid XK-2561-JS00241. So instead it had upgraded, taken a form worthy of the highest respect.

“It’s okay, yeah?” Harroc was at its side, tail twitching and, even with a life extended beyond that of his human progenitor—never as long as that of their mother—Red could see the wear of the decades on him too. Less physically, he didn't age per session, but Red had been there from the beginning, when Harroc had hatched from an egg. And it could see it now, in the bearing, the weight of wisdom in the eyes. An almost kindred spirit in this.

The droid didn’t know what it meant, this new chapter in its life, this new body. But it had been given a chance, long ago, in a humid and sweltering storage room, by a confusing, mortal woman. And truly the best way to honor those fallen comrades was to do whatever it could to find out.

The droid paused, thumb dragging along the curve of a small holodisk, pressing into the center to bring up the image. The original Void Squadron, it was a picture that had been taken for morale, to commemorate what we were and what we are. The hull was familiar, and there they all were, basking in the glory of being the ones to reclaim the Katana fleet. Younger then, the future ahead of them, victory on the horizon.

Red had the image, the entire memory, locked away securely in its memory banks making the holo quite superfluous. At any moment it could replay those memories, and it would be as though nothing had changed, as though it was right back in that moment, could recall the feel of Nia’s arms slung around its shoulders, holding tight. The way Nico would scoff and try to shift away from the camera, only to be pinned between Illeria and Arcturus. How Riva insisted on climbing onto Tyrk’s shoulders. A better time, Red thought, and the pain of knowing that it was all that was left ached like a burnt out hole in his torso.

There had never been organics quite like them before, and there would never be organics quite like them in the galaxy again.

“Yes.” With a sharp nod—jerky, still calibrating this new body—Red set the holo down, on display, these children should remember, with the other trinkets, in memoriam. “It’s okay.”

It was a terribly lonely thing, to be the only one left.

[egoiistas]

Dear Mr. Mustang,

Day 5 of Royai Week: Letters Rated: T? iunno || Words: 2928

January 10th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

        The house is quieter with you gone. It’s funny, all that time trying to keep the noise down and it’s the first thing I notice. Father barely speaks, I think he’s still furious with you -  he doesn’t show it, he was never one to vocalize his thoughts. He stays in his study, leaving his comfort zone for dinner time or at night once he’s done brooding, I suppose.

I’m not completely sure why you’ve asked me to write to you, but your face looked genuine when you asked so I won’t take it as a jest. I suppose I’ve run out of things to say. I’d like to know what the academy is like. I wish you the best in your training.

Riza H.

Riza bit on the edge of her inkpen, nervous about the words that she wanted to say without saying too much.  She sat back into her wooden chair, having half a mind to tear it into pieces. Her hand hovered over the sheet, ready to crumple into a ball, but she hesitated.

Leaning forwards, she grabbed the short edge of the letter and folded, creasing it to fit neatly within an envelope. She tucked the letter away to drop off at the postal office during her trip to town.

January 30th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

Winter classes are in session again. I’ll admit the house seems lonelier. In between the usual upkeep around the house and work from the courses given, there’s hardly a soul to speak to besides what I’m doing now in these letters. I’ve played with the thought of leaving this place too. You always talked about the big city and I only have my imagination and images from books to go by. Perhaps, one day, I could go see the rest of Amestris. I laugh just thinking about it.

As I write this, Father’s cough is going off a few doors down into his study.  Someone would need to take care of him. I do hope these get to you. Old Lady Germaine at the post says I’m addressing them right. If not, I hope a kind stranger takes comfort in the musings of a random girl.

Riza H.

February 16th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

I’m hesitant to write this, even now. I feel as though I’m being irrational and losing focus over stupid letters. For heaven’s sake, you’re in the military academy and I’m just someone with too much time on their hands who can’t handle a father who mumbles to himself about a legacy and his alchemy like a madman. I can’t

The pen veered off the paper’s edge and dropped onto surface of the desk with a clatter, and her palms pressed down into her eyes to stop the manifestation of tears. She knew it was a lost cause. She tore herself down, reprimanding herself her letters were just that, not a diary.  Her father’s voice became eerily clear in her head, encompassing her own thoughts. She was 17, not a child with her mind in the clouds.

She shut her eyes, curling her body into the seat of the chair. The temptation to leave was all she could think about.

In a way, she envied Roy and his ability to pack up and leave once as the apprenticeship came to a close. Her time would come, Riza consoled herself.

Taking a deep breath, she wiped the remnants from her moment of weakness into the collar of her dress. Her hand ripped the letter and tossed the pieces into the wastebin next to her desk. Riza lifted the surface of her desk to produce another sheet of paper. She began again.

February 16th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

How’s the winter treating you in the academy? I’ve been very busy with schoolwork. I sometimes find time to go out into the field and shoot some old cans - glass bottles if I’m lucky. I wonder what it is like to have a dog as a companion. Father takes strolls on his own. He hasn’t offered apprenticeship to anyone else. What little he says, he’s always sure to remind me to keep mindful of my studies and says no one can take my education from me. Are you keeping up with what you learned here? Or has it all gone away?  Best wishes.

Riza H.

February 29th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

A day that only comes around every four years. An unusual occurrence in our everyday lives, like birds singing in the winter, sunlight during the rain, or my father coming home with groceries and packages after a day out on the town. Can you believe father goes out? It seems a new life has gotten into him lately.

He’s mostly silent to me. But there is something unsettling, where his eyes wanders. It’s not at me, but it’s something around me and I can’t quite place where they roam. Could he be going mad after all? He seems better but..I digress.

Best Wishes Riza H.

March 15th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

Whether or not you’re getting these, they’re my only consolation. It takes my mind away. The Ishvalan War is getting more dangerous and closer to rural areas such as my quiet little hometown. Father’s malady bothers him less as the temperature begins to warm. He makes trips still to the town.

I talked to him about if I could ever travel out of town and go see Mother’s grave that lies at a cemetery a little more to the east. He became irrationally furious. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. He degraded my intelligence, which was off-putting, but … The anniversary of her death is soon, perhaps I should feel some empathy for the loss of his wife, as well.  Hope you’re well. 

Riza H.

March 21, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

I’m terrified. I have nightmares.

The letter dated March 15th laid on her desk; it settled unwritten. Riza placed the heavy quilt given to her by her mother and tried to find the comfort or a light to latch on to.

May 25th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

It’s your birthday. I wish I had saved the address to your Aunt Chris so that I could send a gift there, but I seem to have lost my head and with it the address you left behind. I swore I placed it somewhere safe. I’m biting my lip as I write this - I miss your goofy nature. Your light heartedness brought a little glee to this otherwise dull existence. I laughed harder than I ever remember doing and my smiles are far and few between now.

This is rather forward of me and quite unlike me, but I reminisce on the the summer days where we spent the lazy afternoon under the clouds. I never imagined I could enjoy losing time watching the clouds roll by. It’s only been a half a year, but it seems so long ago now.

Best Wishes, Riza H.

June 18th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

We managed to go visit her. Her grave was no longer intact. Father was silent the entire ride home and there was something in the surface of his eyes that I wasn’t able to read. Perhaps I’ve been staring at them as listlessly brown eyes that any emotion would be so foreign for me.

There was a skirmish of some kind with the Ishvalans and now there’s no telling where the grave was amongst the barren wasteland. It should be alarming that the fighting is nearby, but military men came to our door and spoke to me about the safety they were assuring.

Father, as bold and brash as he is, spat in their faces. I apologized for it. Thankfully, they were convinced when I told him in low tones that he was missing a screw. I saw their heads look at the state of the house and they understood immediately that it was just us there. Whether I should be unsettled by it, we’ll find out.

My heart aches, Roy. I’ve seen my mother’s grave a handful of times. The memory of her is so fleeting and I barely remember what she looks like any more. I shed my tears, not for the loss of a mother, but the only memory that was tangible.  I have a theory Father took down all the pictures and destroyed them. I wonder if I look like her, would that be the explanation for his cold behavior towards me? On a lighter, yet somehow darker note, could you imagine a daughter with the spitting image of Berthold Hawkeye with a bow? Best Wishes.

Riza H.

September 12th, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang.

It’s my birthday. But there hardly seems a reason to celebrate. The sky is dark and gloomy as if winter will approach earlier this year.  The entire summer has passed and classes are over. I wonder why he felt the need to send me to school. Does he possibly intend to marry me off to someone? What are his plans? He seems like he’s in a scheming mood, but I’ve mentioned before his behavior is unlike from what I’ve seen since you left for the academy.

I’ll blow out a candle or perhaps an imaginary one. I’ll take comfort in the times I made your birthday cake. Or the one year you tried to surprise me with a small cake for me. You said “small cake for the small lady.” I was so mad, but I hold that memory dearly now.  It was an awful cake too. Someone should teach you how to bake. If only you’d learn.

Take care. Riza H.

November 27, 1904 Dear Mr. Mustang,

Do you believe we’re born with our burdens? That we’ll never escape them  no matter how fast you run? Forgive me for being vague. The tears that fall are trying not to dilute the ink on the paper as I write this and I don’t have the energy to begin once more.

Alchemy is lauded like the salvation of mankind. If this is the product of alchemy,  if this is what my father has to show for his years of research, then I wish I had no part of it. There’s a fire on my back and I cannot extinguish it. It burns terribly, like his alchemy. I’ve fallen sick from it, from his inexperience in the application of it.

If you ever have a child, promise me you won’t treat them like my father has treated me. I hardly have words to speak to him. He speaks to me now with a tone of concern. I know it’s not for me. Not for the welfare of Riza Hawkeye.  Was I unworthy of it? Did he question my aptitude? Did he not think I’d be capable? Questions are swirling in my head, pleading for answers, and I lack the courage to confront him. What else is he capable of? What more do I not know of Berthold Hawkeye? Please send me your regards. I beg for someone to show me they still care for a forgotten girl in a rundown house.

Riza H.

January 12, 1905 Dearest Mr. Mustang,

It’s the new year. A whole year has gone by and a lot has happened since you’ve gone to your military academy for reasons I may never know. I’ve sent a myriad of letters and I’m not sure if you’ve received them or if there isn’t time for you. But as I said, this is the new year and I suppose I should create my own closure by properly saying good-bye - for my own sake.  Plenty has happened, the unspeakable - things I never thought I’d witness, but I bear the scars of it. You gave me an insight of a different type of life. I can only hope I can get a semblance of what that’s like.

I never thought I’d admit this to myself. I wish that you were here. Wherever you are, stay safe, Roy. Best Wishes. 

Riza H.

Delicate hands folded the letter into straight creases before it slipped effortlessly into the white envelope and addressed it for the last time.

With a sadness in the depths of her chest, she sealed the envelope, rising from her chair. Riza exited her room and saw the light escape from the cracks of her father’s study. A warm jacket weighed heavily against her tiny frame, but the bite to her cheeks reminded her that a minor inconvenience was leagues better than frostbite to her skin.

Old Lady Germaine no longer worked the post office, having recently retired. Her granddaughter now ran it for her. The girl around the same age as Riza perked as she entered the building. Riza shivered off the change in temperature and began to materialize the letter from the inner lining of her jacket.

“Miss Hawkeye, right?”

A little stunned to be called by name by someone she didn’t see too often, she nodded slowly. This was a small town after all.

“My grandmother said you’d be coming in a lot.”

It made her embarrassed and Riza thanked the cold for the redness on her cheeks. She silently placed the letter on the counter, sliding over to the girl to handle.

She smiled at her as she took it, but extended her other hand, “I’m Germaine, like my grandmother.” Young Germaine, she thought comically.

She took the hand and shook it courteously. “Riza Hawkeye. Nice to meet you.”

“Same to you! I’ll see you around.” Riza heard her say as she turned around to exit back into the bitter cold.

As she walked back into the deteriorating manor, at first, she thought her father was in his study again rambling to himself like the self-deluded madman he became. However, as she hung the coat on the rack, Riza listened carefully and distinguished a second voice. It was deeper and louder than the weak voice of her father. Curious, Riza began to ascend the stairs to second story, trying not to stir the noise out of the steps.

The second voice sounded as if they were pleading and her father responded with the emotionless tenor that somehow broke her heart every time.

Suddenly, it changed.

Riza heard the chatter grow into yells. A plea for someone to help, for a doctor, “Someone call a doctor! Is anybody here?!”  

Riza dashed as quickly as her thawing legs would allow her to the origin of the sound from the study. The panic set in her and she didn’t know who was in her house or what was going on, but someone beckoned for her that wasn’t her father.

At the threshold, she froze in a manner likening to the ice outside. She leaned against the door with her palms to catch herself and her face contorted in a look of disbelief and horror.

She smelled the tin in the air. Blood contrasted against the white of the paper on the desk. The cough that deteriorated her father’s health only worsened with the winter, and her father was slung around the shoulder of a military officer. It took her a moment to register the face and she could swear the feeling of her feet nearly left.

It was him. Standing in the flesh. Terror in his eyes.

“Riza!”She heard him shout.

The family doctor came right as the feeling gathered in her fingers. Berthold Hawkeye was pronounced dead at 12:47 pm on January 12th, 1905.

She didn’t offer Mr. Mustang to stay the night with her the Hawkeye manor, so he stayed at an inn in town. He left the next day to take care of some matters in Central. He said he’d be back for the funeral he was going to pay for.

The letters became insignificant now. They were nonexistent and she vowed the topic would never surface unless he brought it up. The feeling of embarrassment from being acknowledged like a stranger. She couldn’t help but doubt herself. Her thoughts went to the few summers they spent together, a time when she didn’t see him the way she did now. Where they all in her head? Did she not only inherit her father’s legacy but his lunacy too?

Riza felt the quietness of the house. It was so silent. She could feel his ghost around her, especially on her back.

It was a surreal moment. Riza entered her father’s study and began sort through his belongings and organize the clutter he had left behind. There were books upon books stacked halfway to the ceiling and filled the bookshelf. Some of them with paper notes jutting out the edges and she hated each and every blank book for not being good enough for her late father.

She let out a sigh without anyone in the large house to hear it. Once the loose papers and strewn books were organized, she reached for one of the many trunks and opened it. This one was more organized with folders and dividers to separate papers. There was a clump at the back that made the dividers bend from the breadth of the contents.

As her delicate fingers wiggled it out, her eyes widened and she felt a cold sweat suddenly spread across the surface of her skin. In her hands were a stack of letters with a string wrapping them together. In the front was her familiar handwriting and the familiar address she wrote so many times

Her breath escaped through her lips.

Roy Mustang Renwall Military Academy East City, Amestris

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white

This is a Wars of the Roses Hunger Games AU.

I've had to take certain liberties with the actual history of the Wars of the Roses (especially the dates) as well as with some of the HG characters (namely their ages), for this to work. Still, I hope you enjoy it, because as a giant history nerd, this is something I've been dying to write!

roses are red, roses are white prologue a king of death and blood and bones

Madge of Bedford is born to an England on the cusp of war, soon to run red with its own rebellious blood.

The year is 1453 and her mother falls terribly ill, nearly dies in childbed. Midwives rush about in a panic as the Duchess of Bedford turns ghostly pale, blood pooling on the floor and outside, Madge's father the Duke paces along the stone floors of the hall, worry gnawing at his nerves.

The healthy, screaming child is hurried away from her dying mother and the nurse that attends to her cannot hide her disappointment that the wilting Duchess couldn't have given her husband a son and heir. What use will a small daughter have to so great a lord?

(greater than you could imagine)

The Duchess of Bedford does not die, manages to cling feebly to life but the midwives and physicians are clear, she will have no more children.

The newly christened Madge of Bedford will be her parents' only legacy.

(and what a legacy it will be)

Lady Madge of Bedford is adored and cherished, showered with the affection her parents cannot give to the bevy of children they had planned to have. She spends her early years raised in the comfort of her father's grand estates, far from court life and all its intrigues. Her father is the only one to travel all the way to London, always brings her back a gift, an exquisite dress or beautiful doll.

(she does not notice what he brings back for her mother, whispered words and frightened looks)

The world outside is rather foreign to her, the tumultuous landscape of England entirely unknown but then she enters her ninth year and with it, comes the invitation.

Her father returns from a session at Court but he is not cheery as he usually is, looks older even to Madge's young eyes. Her mother pales as she looks at him and Madge begins to feel anxious, looks from one parent to the other in question. Her father takes note of her and smiles, though it does not reach his eyes.

"Would you like to go to Court, my love? The King and Queen have requested that you and your lady mother accompany me to the Christmas celebrations. Would you like to meet the King and Queen?" he asks and Madge nods a little eagerly, perhaps not quite as dignified as a young lady should be. She cannot imagine anything more exciting that going to glorious royal palaces for the festivities, meeting the great King and his Queen. She is lost in the wonder of it, does not notice the silent words that pass between her parents, the fear in every line of their faces.

It wouldn't have mattered though, would it?

What the King commands, they follow.

What other choice is there?

(death)

Time moves far too slow for the young Madge, eager and bursting to go to London.

Her father commissions a new dress for the occasion and Madge feels like a princess in periwinkle blue. She concentrates with new passion on her lessons, is determined to be the perfect lady, impeccably mannered and well versed in court etiquette. She practices dancing as often as she can, is so short only one of her father's pages is suitable as a partner. He is clearly an unwillingly partner, only there because her father has insisted but Madge hardly notices, is far too focused on each and every step.

While Madge dreams of the beauty of England's royal court, her mother grows pale and ill, spends long hours of the day in bed. Her father too looks weary, nervous lines deepening in his face. There is a fear in Bedford Castle, a terror of the King she has never met that Madge does not quite notice, too caught up in her own excitement. To Madge, the King and Queen are fairy tales, shining and noble.

Soon, though, they will be her nightmares.

They leave for London at the end of November, in the hope of arriving before the weather reaches its worst.

Madge attempts to remain composed as she sits with her sickly mother in a litter, her father riding beside them. Her parents have told her little of the royal family, but she knows King Coriolanus has been king for many, many years, far longer than Madge has been alive. She knows the Queen, Enobaria, is from Anjou, though she cannot quite remember if Anjou is in France, or just very near it. And finally, she knows Prince Cato, heir to all of England, is near her own age, perhaps a year or two older.

Madge cannot wait to meet them, imagines the Queen will be beautiful and kind, the King just and strong, Prince Cato handsome and brave.

(she is wrong)

Madge has never been in a city like London, is breathless with awe at the sheer size of it, at the throngs of people spread throughout the streets. The smell would normally horrify her but she barely registers it, doesn't even notice how gray her mother's skin has become as they trundle through the city. It is magnificent and Madge is instantly enamored, never wants to return home. She cannot understand how her parents could choose to live on their estate in the country when they could live here, in the jewel of King Coriolanus' kingdom. Westminster Palace looms ahead of them, majestic and awe inspiring, steals the breath from Madge's lungs.

"Look Mama," she whispers in excitement, her mother moaning in response. Madge doesn't notice, can't take her eyes away from Westminster, her imagination racing ahead of her. Magnificent balls, handsome knights, beautiful gowns, they flitter across her mind like birds, bright and mesmerizing.

When the litter stops, when Westminster towers darkly above them, when her mother is so weak and grayed she has to be carried down, Lady Madge of Bedford blooms, unfolding like the rarest blossom. Springs bounce in each of her steps, thrills shine in her blue eyes and her smile stetches wider with every second. The Duke and Duchess of Bedford are quiet, menaced by the evil lurking in Westminster's halls but Madge, Madge comes alive for the very first time.

(oh, how times will change)

Madge is fairly certain her insides are humming when they go to present themselves to the King, her ears buzzing like summer bees. Her mother leans heavily into her father, each step slow and labored but Madge is the opposite, has to keep stopping herself from running. She shivers all over with anticipation when the great doors to the King's audience chamber are opened, her stomach writhing with snakes.

A smartly dressed herald announces them and they step inside, Madge's eyes magnetized to the heavy gilded thrones at the far end of the room. There is a great puprle banner hanging behind them on the wall, with the King's badge stitched in with fine thread. Madge feels a tingle in her spine as she looks at it, a wolf wearing a crown and surrounded by the red roses of the king's royal house of Lancaster. She drops her gaze to the people sitting in those great thrones, her breath freezing in her lungs.

Prince Cato stands to the King's right, dressed in fine burgundy velvet. He is young, with still rounded cheeks and fair hair, but there's something in the darkness of his eyes and the curve of his smirk that makes Madge shy, her heart thudding with nerves. The Queen sits on the King's left, wearing a sumptuous golden gown dripping with jewels. Rubies dangle from her ears, emeralds shimmer at her throat and sapphires shine on her wrists, the whole of her glittering like a precious gem. There are pearls woven into her dark hair and she smirks just like her son, her teeth sharp and pointed. Madge almost flinches, something foreboding slinking into her chest and she rests her eyes on the King then, the one man who holds all of England in his fists. He is much, much older than his wife, his hair a snowy white, his face lined and waxy. His lips are swollen and red, blood kissing the corner and Madge stifles a gasp as he looks at her, his eyes frozen over with ice.

The Duke of Bedford sweeps into a low bow, "your Majesties," he murmurs and then his Duchess wilts into a curtsy, her skin nearly translucent. Madge hurriedly drops into her own curtsy, chest feeling tight. They wait like that, heads bowed as the King's observes them, his eyes prickling over Madge's skin.

"You may rise," he says, a note of humor in his voice that has Madge wondering if she missed a joke. They all stand and Madge tries to remember her manners, but she can't help but take in the royal family with wide eyes. Prince Cato sneers at her and she frowns, would make a face but knows she isn't allowed.

"It has been too long, our dear Margaret," the King says, addressing Madge's mother. The Duchess of Bedford doesn't meet his eyes, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

"Indeed, your Majersty."

"We insist you visit more often. We won't have you hidden away from us in the countryside." His tone is almost light, almost joking but there's enough of an edge to it that Madge's father stiffens and her mother closes her eyes with a pained expression. Madge is confused, because the King is speaking as if he knows her mother, but neither of her parents have ever mentioned any sort of relationship before (she's also wondering why he keeps saying "we" when he seems to mean "I"). She wants to ask them but can't here in front of the royal family, Prince Cato's mean eyes digging into the side of her head. She wants to glare back but knows she isn't meant to, well brought up young ladies aren't supposed to glare.

(manners are sometimes dreadful)

"And this must be your daughter, then?" the King asks and Madge startles as she realizes he's talking about her.

"Yes, your Grace," her father answers and Madge turns in the King's direction, but doesn't raise her eyes, knows that would be improper. She can feel the King's heavy gaze on her and it makes her hot and uncomfortable. He doesn't speak, scrutinizing her and she holds her breath, anxious to hear what he has to say.

She never finds out, the oak doors exploding open before he can pass any sort of judgement and she nearly jumps out of her dress in surprise. The two doors crash back against the walls and a well dressed man about her father's age comes striding in with purpose.

"The Duke of York!" the herald calls in a shocked voice and the King frowns deeply. The Duke marches right up to the King, bypassing Madge and her parents, and drops into a hurried bow.

"What is the meaning of this?" the King asks in a rough, unhappy voice.

"Your Grace, four men have just been apprehended at a local pub. It is reported they were in the midst of plotting an assassination." There is a pause and the Duke rises up from his bow, face dark. "According to the Captain of the Guard, their plan was against your Majesty."

Madge knows it is undignified but cannot help her mouth from dropping open. Why would someone want to plot against the King (she's not really sure what assassination is, but it can't be good)? The King does not look frightened though or even angry. He smiles, wide enough that his lips look like they're cracking, blood dribbling down onto his chin.

"Well, Lord York, tell the Captain that we will punish these men immediately. Send them to the square."

There's something ominous in the way he says "the square" and Madge wonders what could be there. The Duke of York looks startled, in a bad way, his eyes widened with what could be outrage.

"Your Majesty, they have had no trial. We do not know all the facts."

"You may not, but we know enough. Give the order, Lord York." There is a brutal finality in the King's voice and the Duke straightens up, his spine stiff, his face an emotionless mask.

"Of course, your Grace."

"They are to be hung, drawn and quartered. Make sure everything is prepared."

The King is smiling again, wide and amused. The Duke turns and sweeps from the room, the door echoing closed behind him. The King stands and claps his hands, fresh and excited.

"Come along, we shall all witness justice being dealt on these traitors." His voice is raspy with anticipation and there is a cruelty in his eyes, one that makes Madge move closer to her mother, knotting her fingers in her dress. Prince Cato vibrates, his expression lit up with joy and the Queen bares her teeth in a grin, all the royal family clearly enthused at what's about to happen.

"My daughter, your Majesty-" her father begins but the King silences him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It will be good for the girl to see what becomes of traitors," he says, barely casting a glance at her hidden by her mother's skirts and there is something about the King that reminds Madge of the monsters under her bed.

Madge follows her parents with nervous curiosity, wondering just what "hung, drawn and quartered" means. Her mother can barely walk, her father having to support her and he looks terrified, so terrified Madge feels the sudden urge to cry. Fear flutters in her bones and all her shining dreams start to crumble, crushed to dust beneath the King's booted feet.

He leads them up onto a large wooden viewing platform hung with silks and with two large thrones, one each for the King and his Queen. It has clearly been here for quite some time, shows no sign of being fresjly erected. Whatever happens in this square, clearly the royal family watches it often. The Queen sits down on her throne and Prince Cato eagerly throws himself against the railing at the edge of the platform, desperate to be as close to the action as possible. Madge and her family shuffle over to the Queen's right and Madge looks out at the square with trepidation. There is a scaffold hanging with four ropes and four large tables with four smaller beside them. What could those be for? she wonders. Beyond that is a crowd of London's citizens, hemmed in by palace guards in sturdy armor. The people gathered look pale and frightened, hunched over and clumped closely together.

King Coriolanus moves to stand beside his son at the front of the platform and as if summoned, four burley executioners arrive, each dragging a man in chains. The King's eyes are narrowed in approval and his tongue comes out to run over his bleeding lips. Madge bites her own lip and fastens a hand in her father's doublet for comfort. The King opens his mouth to speak but the Duke of York steps to his side with urgent eyes.

"My King, these men are peasants, hungry and desperate for their families. They could not possibly have succeeded in their plot. Might there be a lighter sentence you could impose?"

King Coriolanus does not look at him, eyes shadowed.

"A lighter sentence?" he questions, voice sending shivers across Madge's skin. The Duke nods.

"Perhaps a simple beheading? Mercy might dissuade others from pursuing such avenues."

His words hang in the air for a moment before the King turns to him, eyes dark like a midnight sky.

"My cousin of York," he begins, poison in each of his words. "These men are traitors. They have conspired to commit high treason against the King's person. If we pardoned them, we would be condoning their actions. Do you condone treason against your king?"

The air feels suddenly colder and no one speaks. The Duke of York's face is pinched tight and King Coriolanus regards him with glittering eyes, something dark Madge doesn't understand hovering between them. Her father places a sweaty hand on her shoulder and finally the Duke of York's expression wilts, eyes drooping and closing.

"Of course not, your Majesty," he says, voice almost lost in the wind and the King smirks, red stains on his teeth. He turns to face the crowd, made up of haggard faces and glassy eyes. Madge is terrified but doesn't know why, a low whimper struggling from her mother's lips.

"These men have tried to assault their King, who has been anointed by God himself! The Lord has preserved us and condemned them, for there is no power on earth great enough to topple His mighty King! For their heresy and treason, we give you their blood! Let it quench the unholy fires of any foolish enough to believe they could depose a King, set upon the throne by the Lord himself!"

King Coriolanus' voice booms but no one cheers, the silence of the crowd like a thunderstorm at midnight. The nooses are placed around the necks of all four men and her father's fingers dig painfully into Madge's shoulder. One of the men whispers a prayer and another starts to cry, tears and snot mixing on his chin. The King takes a seat in his specially erected throne, draped in red velvet and smiles, his eyes bright bright bright.

He waves his hand and the floor beneath the four men disappears. Madge squeaks in shock as they thrash about, legs kicking wildly. She clamps her hands over her eyes to block out the sight but she can still hear their gurgling, choking struggle and Prince's Cato laughter, enthusiastic and energetic. Then comes a series of heavy thuds and Madge's lowers her hands to see the men have been cut down. They breathe heavily and oh, she thinks, they're still alive. She feels relief but then confusion, because hung, drawn and quartered. What does drawn and quartered mean?

Executioners in black haul the men up onto the tables and strap them down, her father's fingers bruising on her skin. Her mother swoons slightly, sagging against her husband and Madge hates the fear needling her heart. Each executioner turns to the smaller tables beside the ones where the men are tied down and pick up silver tools that glint in the late November sun. What are they-

Madge would scream but her voice seems to have died in her throat, the Executioners carving each man open. She flinches back and squeezes her eyes closed, hands clamped tight over her ears to block out their screams. It doesn't work, their agony cutting into her as they are disemboweled and her stomach curdles with horror. It goes on forever and Madge wants to wake up, safe and warm in her bed.

Silence settles like a shroud over the square and Madge chances to open her eyes. There is a moment of suspended terror and then she watches four axes rise, fall and four heads roll across the scaffold, severed from their bodies. The executioners lift each dripping head and show them to the crowd, but no one cheers, all except the royal family who applauds heartily. Madge feels sick but the brutality isn't over, each man sawed into four equal parts.

Her mother collapses, blood coats the ground, the crowd is pale and lifeless and King Coriolanus smiles, wicked like the Devil himself.

Madge of Bedford is nine years old and she has learned a harsh lesson.

There are no fairy tails here.

chapter one

[brettanomycroft]

For Science, Chapter 3 [Voltron, Shidge, 3/4]

“Are you comparing me to a computer?” Shiro asks. His own voice echoes back in his ears, dancing the line between nervous and so, so hopeful.

“Yeah,” Pidge spits out, “yeah, I am.”

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Pairing: Pidge|Katie Holt x Shiro, Lance x Keith Rating: T, for swearing and implied sexual content Words: total 34591 Tags: Shidge, swearing, ancillary Klance/Klancillary, let’s talk about our feelings NOT, Pidge is a little shit, gymnastics, antics, FOR SCIENCE duh, cuddling, oblivious Shiro is oblivious, AGED UP, FIVE YEARS LATER, kissing finally

Read on Ao3

Chapter One  Chapter Two

@battleshidge @d0g-bless

Keith tells Shiro to talk to Pidge. Shiro doesn’t.

For three long days, Shiro skirts around the issue, always finding something urgent to do when Keith attempts to ask him about it. Even Lance tries to approach him a few times, but that shit-eating grin of his gives him away, and Shiro is long gone before Lance can corner him.

It’s not that he’s avoiding Pidge - he couldn’t, even if he tried, and as the days crawl forward, it hits him harder and deeper that he really doesn’t want to. As much of their time as before, if not more, is spent together. Every morning Pidge slides into the seat next to him and across their bond shares her amusement at whatever new drama has taken over the breakfast table. Coran alerts them to the fact that they’re nearing the edge of the system, and that the Castle’s information on the next system over is thousands of years out of date. So, the two of them spend hours pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over a system map and strategizing. Pidge interprets the data relayed from sensors Lance and Keith had taken out in their lions while Shiro begins analyzing potential hazards and plotting the safest means for them to approach the system. The satisfied thrum of the connection between them holds until they part after dinner. For two nights straight, he watches Pidge walk away from him, either to her room or down to the labs, and take the remnants of their psychic link with her.

And for two nights straight, the nightmares yank him from sleep hard enough to send him careening off the bed. Shaking and on all fours, he dry heaves in between gasps for breath that aren't deep enough. Once pulse and stomach settle, minutes later, Shiro knows he's up until breakfast. Even then, the air doesn't really sit right in his lungs until he sees the brown thatch of hair stumble into the dining room and slump over the table with sleepy, murmured greetings.

Shiro doesn't think he's being all that obvious about his lack of sleep - it's been a consistent problem for years. Midway through the third day of system plotting, though, Pidge bumps his shoulder with hers and says, “You wanna go rest for a bit? I can come get you when Lance and Keith are done with the data transmission.”

She scoffs at his reassurances that he's fine, but doesn't bring it up again. The rest of the day’s work is quiet, but companionable, even as they exchange strains of worry and soothing through their bond.

It’s nearing evening when Hunk pages Pidge from down in the hangar. Like a blade, the crackle of noise from the PA cleaves straight through their bond.

“Hey, uh, Pidge, Coran an’ I have some smoking circuitry down in the gravity adjusters and could totally use some backup. Or maybe a fire extinguisher. Both?”

“Both is good!” Coran’s voice echoes from further back.

A slight grunt escapes her as she unfolds from over the system map and presses her hands into the small of her back. She sends him a long, impassive look. He stares back, unable to quite decipher the meaning behind her neutral gaze. Her eyes squeeze into a squint, and then widen.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I thought we were still connected. I was trying to feel out if you’d be all right finishing up without me.”

He blinks. Her words are slow to process over the shouting going on between his temples. The thing is, it’s not just lack of sleep and the long hours transforming numbers into action that’s had him feeling out of sorts these past few days.

It’s also the voice in his head, the one he swears used to be much quieter and used to sound a lot less like Lance, that leaps to attention like an overeager puppy any time Pidge so much as looks at him too long. At the moment, it’s insisting that he let Pidge know in no uncertain terms that he will not be all right finishing up without her, and that rather than leaving she should, in fact, come closer.

“Oh, of course, sure,” Shiro says instead.

“Thanks. I’ll try and get back up, but if you finish before I do, maybe at least try and get some rest, okay?”

“I will,” he says with full certainty that he will not.

Pidge, who had already started turning to leave, stops short. She leans in and elbows him in the arm. His “Hey!” of protest lacks teeth; she had, after all, fulfilled his silent hope that she might come nearer.

“You’re so full of shit,” she says, unapologetic.

As exhausted as he is, and as much as he doesn’t want her to go, she succeeds in making him smile. The grin she shoots back is all teeth and mischief. He’d like her smile to overlap with his. They’re close enough that they could, if he bent down, if she rocked forward on her toes.

The thought is dangerous, wholly inappropriate, and impossible to undo. It races around in his brain, getting louder and more Lance-like with every pass.

“Get your filthy mouth off of my bridge and go help Coran and Hunk,” he orders.

Pidge gives him the most lackadaisical salute possible, not much more than a flick of her wrist, and trots off.

“Go take a nap, Shiro!” she calls as the doors to the bridge begin to close. A good twenty ticks pass before he moves. He knows he’s alone on the bridge, but that doesn’t stop him from looking left and right before burying his head in his hands and letting out the longest groan.

This was not going to be easy.

“That bad, huh?”

Shiro’s head snaps up, his body jerking into a defensive stance.

“Wow, I did not mean to startle you.”

His roving eyes, looking for danger, dart to the bridge’s primary holoscreen. It’s Keith, projected larger-than-life above him. He’s suited up in his armor and surrounded by the flickering lights of his lion’s cockpit. Shiro’s arms drop.

“I didn’t hear you open the comm channel,” Shiro says. He’s unable to keep the defensiveness out of his voice, as if it’s Keith’s fault that Shiro has been caught in an awkward situation.

“That’s because you were too busy flirting to notice.”

Keith’s voice is the slightest bit tinny over the bridge speakers, but the humor in his tone isn’t lost.

“We- we weren’t flirting,” Shiro says. His denial sounds weak even in his own ears.

Keith purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. “Be glad it’s me and not Lance, because you know he’d take a pot shot at the whole ‘get your filthy mouth off my bridge’ line.”

It’s a desperate hope that Keith can’t see how red Shiro flushes, but also a foolish one.

“Anyway, I connected to get an update on the mission, not your love life, but since it’s obvious that you still haven’t told her-”

Like the aforementioned conversation with Pidge that he keeps putting off, Shiro avoids Keith’s with immediate redirection.

“Have you and Lance finished the last system scans?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Great. I’ve almost completed the system entry protocol, and Coran, Hunk, and Pidge are dealing with the adjusters so that we’ll be ready for the heightened gravity, since our target planet is circumtrinary. Allura should be about done with the maintenance on the crystal, too, so you two can head on back.”

“We’re already on our way,” Keith says, face pinching in annoyance. It’s obvious what Shiro is doing, and Shiro is happy to keep it that way.

“Got it, we’ll see you soon then.”

“Shiro, stop being an ass, this isn’t difficult--”

Shiro cuts the comm, reburies his face in his hands, and lets out an even longer, even more desperate groan.

Because the truth of it is, nothing about this decision is as easy as Keith claims. Caring wasn’t a weakness, no, but the agonizing he’s done the past handful of days has revealed a long list of problems that wouldn’t exist were it not for his ridiculous feelings.

They would all return to Earth one day. Sooner rather than later, if they used their heads and fought hard. And what was waiting back on Earth for them? Pidge would want to finish school. She’d become a doctor, and no doubt surpass her father. Katie Holt would be known planetwide and beyond. But him?

Maybe he’d have a legacy when they got back; maybe he’d be celebrated for helping rescue the Holts and getting back to Earth. When the praise died down, though, there was no telling what he’d have left. He’d be an old and broken soldier with a fistful of medals and a meaningless rank. Part of him had already considered offering to stay on with Coran and Allura, to continue protecting the universe after the war ended. Dragging Pidge into that was not part of the plan.

And even if she did choose to stay with him after the war, that didn’t mean things would be all right before they defeated Zarkon. Lance and Keith were fine by Allura, Shiro knew that, but this relationship would be different. He was the Black Paladin, the one looked to to call the shots, and when victory was dependent on the seamless mind-meld of five independent individuals, there was no room for perceived favoritism. If he and Pidge were together, would the other paladins question every time he gave her a mission or a special task?

Shaking his head, Shiro drags his hands down his cheeks and lets them go limp at his sides. His team isn’t like that, nor is the Princess. He’s had a half-decade of proof to go by. The fact doesn’t soothe the churning in his abdomen, or keep him from imagining all of the other terrible possibilities. Zarkon or one of his agents could discover their relationship, and go for Pidge under the impression that they could use her as leverage, to make him surrender Kuro.

And what if it didn’t work out? A warzone was no place for heartbreak. Back at the Garrison, he’d watched cadets fall in and out of love as fast as they did formation. It was never pretty to watch the strain it put on the affected units. That was part of why he’d avoided anything more serious than a few off-base flings. The feeling welling up inside of him had been little more than an abstraction until Pidge, and the uncharted territory of what might come next sets him on edge.

His fears go on, and his brain gives him no reprieve from enumerating them, one by one, over and over again. But there was no worry worse than the one that first surfaced when Keith drew out his confession: that she might not return his feelings.

…

The tension in his gut refuses to subside even as it approaches dinner time. He books it from the bridge to the dining room, eager for some regularly scheduled dinner chaos to distract him. Of course, the cosmos has it out for him; the doors to the dining room slide open, and only Lance and Keith are at the table. He has one tick to be thankful that they’re seated and chatting, as opposed to the alternative, before they both turn to him with matching innocent expressions. Shiro has never been so certain that he was the topic of conversation up until he entered.

Never one to dance around a subject, Lance opens with a blatant, “So, how’s Pidge?”

Shiro frowns at Keith and goes over to the goo dispenser. Keith has the decency to look a little uncomfortable.

“He wouldn’t stop bugging me about it,” he says. “And he’s obnoxiously persistent.”

“Yup,” Lance replies, a note of pride in his voice. “Though it’s not like Keith had to tell me anything. It was all pretty obvious after we found you leaving her room. Early in the morning. After spending the night.”

“I didn’t- you know it wasn’t like that!” Shiro snaps. The lever on the goo machine gets the brunt of his frustration as he yanks it down.

“But it could be, if you ever said anything to her,” Keith says.

Instead of responding, Shiro watches as the green, gelatinous goop fills his tray. This exact same conversation has been playing itself out in his head all day, and that paired with his incessant worrying about the whole situation is doing little to soothe his fraying nerves. He forces himself to take a deep breath, grabs a spork, and heads back to the table. From the twitch at the corner of his lips, it’s clear that Lance is fighting a grin, and Keith is starting to get the same pinched look from earlier. There’s not much that Shiro wants more than to give up on dinner and retreat to his room, but he knows Keith and Lance, and he knows that the longer he tries to dodge, the more they’ll pursue.

“I know that you two are trying to help me,” he starts, “and I’m even willing to admit that you’re right.”

Triumph springs up on Lance’s face. Keith, however, doesn’t react, like he knows that Shiro isn’t done.

“But I need you to let this go. At least for a few days, until I can finish wrapping my head around the situation.”

Lance’s protest is immediate. “But why wait? Everyone can tell that Pidge-”

“It’s just going to be harder the more you put it off,” Keith interjects. For once, Lance doesn’t look all that miffed at being interrupted. He nods along vigorously to Keith’s words. “I know from experience that confessions are difficult, but it will be worth getting it all off of your chest. And we can help.” Keith glances at Lance. “Or, I can help.”

“I can help!” Lance insists. “I’m the best at helping!”

He backs down under two sets of dubious stares. Muttering under his breath, Lance turns his attention to pushing the goo on his tray into different shapes.

Under different circumstances, Shiro might feel fortunate to have such caring teammates. The way the Paladins of Voltron look out for one another has been the core of their strength for years. But right now it feels more like an unwelcome intrusion, and he’s reminded of the fact that he is pretty much stuck on a giant castle hurtling through space with limited options for escape.

“I appreciate it,” he says. “I do. But I will do this when I’m ready, and not a minute sooner.”

“Shiro-”

“And I promise that it won’t take me two years.”

Keith’s teeth click when his mouth snaps shut. From the mottling red of his cheeks to the growing scowl, Keith appears to be figuring out if he should be chastened or offended. Lance, still playing with his food, lets out a whistle.

“Low blow, bro, low blow. We’re just trying to help,” he says.

For once, Lance looks less perturbed than Keith at what was by all accounts a pretty petty accusation. By no means was Lance a paradigm of maturity, but he was showing himself to be the bigger person in the room now. Shiro cringes. Lashing out at his friends wasn't the way to solve any of his hangups.

“That was uncalled for,” he says. “I'm sorry. I… haven't been handling this whole revelation very well.”

Keith’s frown flattens a little; he looks somewhat mollified by Shiro’s apology.

“We get it, Shiro, promise,” Lance says. “You’ve got to handle this in your own way. Me? I handled it for a year by trying to flirt with every attractive biped we encountered. Keith? He handled it by buying knives. A lot of knives.”

How Lance manages to bend far enough in his seat to avoid Keith’s elbow in the side without breaking eye contact with Shiro is a mystery. Maybe it was that thing called couple’s ESP that Hunk often joked about. Maybe that was something he and Pidge could have, if he ever got over his own nerves.

“The important thing,” Lance continues, “is that you do eventually do something about it… And that you remember you have people who are here for you when you feel like you can't handle everything on your own.”

Lance sounds so serious, so genuine and assured, that it throws Shiro a bit off balance. Suspicious, he glances around the dining room, looking for any indication that this was a setup. He spots the camera, unnoticed for years, that Hunk and Pidge hacked into in order to spy on Keith and Lance. He wouldn't put it past someone like Lance or Hunk to, in the name of helping, have staged this whole thing reality television style and have Pidge out in the hallway, watching Shiro’s painfully obtuse stumbling through all of this feelings business.

But despite Keith’s frustration with him, Shiro knows Keith wouldn't agree to a stunt like that. His feelings are likely still safe.

“Thanks,” he says, and he tries to put as much appreciation into the word as he can. Lance gives him a thumbs up.

Any further conversation is derailed a tick later, when the doors slide open and Allura joins them. She starts in with questions for Lance and Keith about what they picked up on their system scans during the last flight, and Shiro is left with a few blissful minutes between himself and his food goo.

“Now, if you recall, I did instruct you not to try and reposition the density lifters without the proper equipment.”

Coran appears through door ahead of Hunk and Pidge, chattering away. Draped over Hunk’s arm even as she walks, Pidge sucks at her index finger.

“Hands are proper equipment,” she whines, words obscured by her finger.

All of the tight, tangled knots in his chest go lax. As much of a relief as her presence is, it makes him feel all the more foolish for his earlier melodrama. Reason tells him that if a crush was going to turn him into a mess of a man, then maybe he’d be better off stepping back, trying to return to the easy dynamic they’d had before Keith had wrenched forward all of those concealed feelings.

He doesn't want to. Especially not when her finger pops from her mouth and beams at him.

“Looks like your girlfriend is here.”

The words slide low and quiet across the table, but they gain enough momentum to hit Shiro with the force of a fist to the jaw. His spork hits his tray with a squish, and his head snaps in Lance's direction. Given the way Allura and Keith carry on with their conversation, Shiro must the only one who heard Lance’s comment. The grin on Lance’s face reads clearer than any data screen readout: A low blow for a low blow, buddy.

What's worse is that Lance knows as well as Shiro that there's nothing he can say or do without drawing attention to what Lance just said. Pidge sits down next to him, and Shiro swallows his agitation at Lance. He did kind of deserve it.

“Looks like that whole nap thing really worked out for you,” she says, gesturing to his lost spork. She rests her head on a fist and smiles at him again. “Your dexterity is astonishing.”

“My dexterity is fine,” he says, hoping to cover one embarrassment with another, “You startled me, is all.”

Tearing his eyes from her and turning them to the spork in the goo is the right way to keep himself from getting called out; lying has never been his strong suit, but his bluff seems to work well enough to keep her from questioning why his words came out so high and rushed.

“I’d make some joke about you being a total space case,” Pidge says, watching in amusement as he tries to pluck the spork from his plate without goo-ing his fingers, “but I think we all technically qualify as space cases, so the joke would be kinda moot.”

She slides some goo onto her spork, shoves it in her mouth, and continues talking even as she chews at it. “Also, I guess I’m not really one to lecture when it comes to sleep. Since, you know. I don’t get much of it.”

“No, you?” he asks, voice dripping in mock disbelief.

“Surprising, right?” Pidge sets her spork down and starts fluffing up her already voluminous hair. “You’d think it’d take hours of beauty sleep to look this good.”

Her tone of voice is teasing, like it's obvious she doesn't believe a word of what she's saying. She bats her eyelashes at him, or, at least, attempts to: the end result is a mechanical sort of blinking that sends them both into a giggling fit.

“Hey, that's my line!” Lance protests from across the table.

“What, you have some kind of space patent on stupid pickup lines?” Pidge asks. “If I owe you royalties, consider this the first installment of my payment.”

She sticks out her tongue. Lance returns the gesture, so Pidge ups the ante by crossing her eyes. Shiro’s pulse momentarily forgets itself at the phrase ‘pickup line’.

Stars, when viewed in isolation from the ground, are little more than distant specks of light. On their own, they make for poor navigation; on their own, they carry no story.

And so, the decision Shiro makes does not come just from Keith’s constant encouragement or Lance’s prying. It does not come from sleepless nights or hours spent connected at mind and hip. No, in this moment it is Pidge's face, reddened from laughter and contorted as she tries to match Lance's ridiculous expressions, that becomes his blazing North Star. With it, everything joins.

He wants her. He wants to be with the genius of a woman who pulls faces at her friends and faces off with her enemies. The woman who spends hours creating flamethrowers for fun and then dismantles entire Galra fleets with a few keystrokes. The one to literally sweep him off his feet.

The picture comes together as a whole, a constellation bright against the black, pointing him in the right direction. He just has to take the first step.

“If you look this good without beauty sleep,” Shiro declares, “then I want to be around the first time you get a full eight hours of shut eye.”

The table falls quiet. Keith and Lance share slack-jawed stares, like they can't believe that, after all of his protesting, Shiro up and did the thing he’d said he wasn't ready to do. He can't believe it either, really. Even spoken under his breath, Hunk’s “Oh, that was smooth” is audible.

Pidge, in the middle of pushing up her nose like a pig’s, turns from Lance to him with aching slowness. She lets go of her nose. Her eyes dart from Shiro, to each side of her, and back again to him. Panic clenches around his neck: he can’t breathe, he can’t look away. What on Earth or in space compelled him to say that?

“Weeeelllp, delicious goo as always,” Lance says in a rush, “but you know, there’s nothing like a good round on the training deck before bed, so I’m just going to go.” His chair scrapes across the floor noisily as he pushes back from the table. “Keith, come spar with me.”

Sounding shocked, Keith gets out a “But you never want to train after-” before Lance cuts him short by hauling him out of his chair and towards the door. Shiro can hear Lance hiss something to Keith in a whisper, which is followed by a loud “Ooohh,” from Keith.

“Uh, yeah, you know, that reminds me, I still have a ton of stuff to do in the lab, ship stuff and… stuff that I need Coran’s help with,” Hunk says, scrambling to balance his two goo-stacked trays and drink as he stands. Coran continues eating, appearing nonplussed by Hunk’s volunteering of his time. “So I’m going to go ahead and go,” Hunk continues, “and Coran is going to come with me to help me out.”

There’s a beat of silence before Coran erupts from his seat. “Right, righto! Helping! Down in the lab. Away from here. In the lab. I’m on it!”

Coran and Hunk make a beeline for the door. Allura is on their heels, leaving with little more than, “I wasn’t all that hungry anyway.” Her voice sounds downright gleeful.

And then it’s him and Pidge.

“Well…” Pidge hedges, “that was weird.”

When Shiro breathes in, it feels like he’s swimming in food goo: everything around him thick, unclear, and impossible to tell if pleasant or not. He likes being with Pidge. He’s not so sure he likes the strange look she’s giving him.

“Yeah. I’ve never seen Hunk leave a dining room so fast.”

“Yeah.”

They stare at each other like it's their first time meeting. Nerves win out against the temptation of probing their bond; he not sure he wants to know what she's feeling. Shiro scrapes the remnants of his goo from the corners of his tray. When he swallows the meager bite, he pictures swallowing the anxious lump in his throat down as well. It works, but barely.

“I meant it,” he says as he puts his spork down. “You look good. Even without much sleep.”

Pidge's smile rises rosy like dawn: gradual and hesitant at first, as if it might peek back down under the horizon. But as it strengthens, he feels light fingers of warmth assuage his misgivings.

“I hope you're not holding out for a night of good sleep from me,” she says, “because the chances of that happening are less likely than Coran shaving his moustache.”

“That's okay,” he says. “Unlike Coran, you don't need it.”

On some level, he's aware of how ridiculous he sounds. For better or for worse (mostly for worse), the most exposure he's had to the art of flirting is through Lance, whose over-the-top methods of “seduction” often ended up with him being rejected, ridiculed or, in a significant number of cases, both. Somehow, despite all of that, Lance had attracted stolid, serious Keith. Somehow, despite all of that, Pidge responds to his flirtations in the best of ways. She blushes, rolls her eyes, and goes, “I think Coran was born with that thing. It's probably some sort of bizarro Altean lifesource.”

They spend the rest of dinner together discussing everything from the possibility of a Samson-like connection between Alteans and their hair ('Allura’s hair is way too voluptuous to be purely decorative’) to the absolute boredom created by their travel through the current system ('Zarkon came through this system once, and it was so uninteresting that he decided that even he couldn't make it worse’). It doesn't matter that they both finished eating ages ago, or that they stay at the table way longer than even Hunk and Coran would.

When they eventually part, it's with flimsy excuses and an unspoken understanding that it wouldn't be all that long until they're together again.

…

And as much as Shiro knew it wouldn't be long until he was back with Pidge, he'd rather it were under better circumstances. He can't sleep. He already knows that trying now will lead to misery.

Shiro doesn't naturally have violent tendencies, but if he did, he thinks he might punch Keith. It's not actually Keith’s fault, he knows this, but their conversation splits wide a sort of Pandora’s Box that he guesses had been lying dormant at the base of his skull now for years. For two nights straight, every latent fear he'd never acknowledged he had is shoved to the forefront, and the nightmares that, with time, had become more formless in their details if not their terror, refocus to painful clarity.

Almost all of them feature Pidge. Whether it’s the Green Lion being dragged down by the inescapable gravity of a powerful sun, or Pidge taking Matt’s place in the Galra prison camps, his dreams always rip her away from him. They only feed his growing need to see her as much as possible.

So this time, when the hot breath of waiting nightmares huffs down his spine, he doesn’t hesitate. Shiro rises from his desk, detaches his data screen from its keyboard, and leaves. He swears he hears the fury of the dodged dreams in the hiss of his closing bedroom door.

This time, Pidge's door is wide open. Light from her room cuts through the dim hallway. It draws him straight to his destination, part tractor beam, part invitation. He sidles up to the entrance and gives the doorframe a quiet rap.

Pidge's lithe frame is silhouetted in the bright glow of the screen at her desk. As expected, she's plucking away at her work. It's not much past eleven - just an hour after the Castle’s lights dim, and early into Pidge's night. She doesn't turn when he knocks, though the sharp clatter of fingers flying across a keyboard pauses.

“You know you can come in without knocking.”

Their bond has already snapped into place, the process so seamless and natural that he hadn't noticed until now. It's been getting easier and easier to connect after the recent days spent in such close contact. Given the twist of emotions he's been battling all day, Shiro should feel nervous standing at her door. But all he feels are impressions of his thoughts mingling with Pidge’s, and all of them tell him that he's right where he ought to be.

“I know, but old habits die hard,” he says. “I didn't want to invite myself in unannounced. You don't like surprises.”

She spins in her chair to face him. She’s back in her standard loungewear, and lounge she does, slinging her arm around the back of her chair and stretching her legs out. Without the thick lenses of her glasses in the way, her eyes seem all the more gold as she heaves them upwards and shakes her head.

“I don’t like bad surprises,” she clarifies. “Coran’s 'surprise’ vacation to that moon that was inhabited by semi-sentient spiders was a bad surprise. Keith’s birthday gift last year was a really bad surprise.”

Shiro grimaces at that, even as she chuckles. Where Keith had gotten the idea that Pidge loved being ambushed in the hall by training droids in homemade party hats would be a good gift for her, he doesn't know. Probably Lance. Pidge had sliced all of the sleeves off of Keith’s jackets for that.

“But I have nothing wrong with good surprises,” she continues. A smile rising to her lips, Pidge cocks her head and rests it on her fist.

The words are as welcoming as the tug he feels on their link. Without hesitation, he crosses over to the small living side of the room and props his elbows on the back of her couch. The doors shut behind him, and her room becomes a bubble, bright and detached from its surroundings.

“Am I a good surprise?” he asks.

If his attention hadn’t been fixated on her, he would miss the flash of teeth as they sink into her bottom lip. The couch makes for a solid barrier between the two, an unexpected blessing the moment after she stops worrying at her lip to say, “Technically, you’re not a surprise, since I sensed you on your way and all… but you don’t have to be unexpected to be good.”

While her words may wind around the point, the sentiments zip straight across their bond, unimpeded. He leans more heavily against the couch, unsure if he’s glad or frustrated for how it holds him back from her.

“You have a strange way of giving a guy a compliment,” he says, grin curling at his lips. Giving in, he circles the couch and drops down.

Pidge shrugs. “Pot, kettle, Shiro. I’m not good with people, or compliments, or probably even being nice. You, on the other hand, are good at people and being nice, but terrible at compliments.”

He couldn't act offended if he tried. It’s all too pleasant: her teasing smirk, the little crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she watches and waits for his response.

“Terrible? Care to explain?”

She snorts. “I'm sure you were just warming up with, ‘Unlike Coran, you don’t need it’”. A smug look crosses her face, but it doesn’t undo the splash of pink across her nose and cheeks.

He frowns and glances away. Had it sounded that awkward when he'd said it? At the time, he'd been going for genuine and heartfelt, not 'blindly grasping at straws’. Pidge seemed to react well to it, though, and she looks pretty pleased now. Shiro’s mind backs up its last sentence by two words and sticks firmly there.

Her hair, swept back into a low ponytail, falls over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. The light from her desk basks her in a bluish glow, highlighting the curve of her shoulder and the slope and shadow of her collarbone. His eyes follow the line of her arm, down to the desk and back up to where her head sits on a hand. Wisps of scars, gathered through years of fighting and fiddling, peek out from under soft arm hair. The skin stretched across her knuckles is cracked from hard use, and while he's not close enough to see them, Shiro knows she must feel the scrape of thick callous she absentmindedly strokes at her cheek with a finger.

Perhaps she had a point about his compliment technique. It was getting difficult to find enough words for the ever-growing list of traits of hers that he found captivating.

“Maybe not my finest,” he concedes. “So, give me some pointers. What kinds of compliments would you like to hear?”

He watches her reaction. At first, there is none: she peers at him and offers nothing more than a slow blink. Rationally, he knows it is impossible, but to him it is as though the whole world constricts to a single point. Every molecule of air has been compacted into such a small space; his lungs ache. There is no more to the universe than Pidge, who holds him captive in her sudden quiet.

A wordless Pidge has, and always will, put him on edge. It makes him wonder just how fast her brain must be spinning, just what the roiling twister of her thoughts will spit out first. It makes him feel millions of miles away from her, the only star in the sky he can see, but cannot reach. She bites her bottom lip again.

“Only the ones that you really mean,” she says.

He holds back a sigh of relief. “Easy enough. I always mean them.”

She leans forward in her chair and smiles. Genuine pleasure drips across their bond. This time when she looks him up and down, the gap between desk and couch seems to dwindle. She further narrows the distance when she scoots her chair forward, settles a hand on his knee, and says, “Then I guess the real challenge will be coming up with a compliment that doesn't involve Coran.”

Letting out a low whistle, Shiro shakes his head. “That… might be a little more difficult,” he teases. He strokes at his chin, pretending to think, while he lets his other hand slide over to rest atop hers.

“You’re as brilliant as Coran’s moustache is thick.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “You're terrible,” she says. Nonetheless, she turns the hand under his over, so that they press palm to palm. He takes it as encouragement to curl his fingers around hers until he's loosely holding her hand.

“I admire you more than Coran admires the Balmera.”

“Okay, that's pretty good, even for a Coran compliment.”

The color surging to her cheeks is reward enough, but then she squeezes his hand tight. The sensation travels from hand, to chest, to stomach.

“What else have you got?” she asks. Her voice wavers, missing the nonchalance he thinks they've both been aiming for. She's back to not-quite-looking at him.

Shiro grins. He’s been saving the best of the ones he'd come up with.

“Eating next to you every day makes Coran's paladin lunch more tolerable.”

“Holycrowstoooop!,” she whines. Pidge drops his hand and pushes off his knee, spinning herself back around in her chair. She hides her face in her hands, and the emotions that come across their connection are a thick and knotted jumble. It would take him ages to untangle, should he try, but for a tick he thinks he can tease out a few familiar in himself: excitement, worry, hope, affection, and something deeper, something he might know, but that trembles and retreats when his mind reaches out to investigate.

“You're supposed to give compliments you mean,” Pidge says through her fingers, “and there's no way Coran's paladins lunch is ever tolerable.”

“But it's true,” he says simply.

Pidge makes a strange sound, somewhere between a groan and a gurgle. He understands: he, too, feels a bit like drowning.

“I guess you're not that terrible at compliments,” she admits. She peels her hands from her face, but she's still facing the large data screen at her desk.

“I could use some more practice,” he says. “Would you be willing to be my test subject again some time?”

Shiro envisions the desired effect: the broad strokes of red painting cheeks and neck; the hitch of breath; perhaps, if he were lucky, her hand back in his. Instead, Pidge makes that funny gurgle-groan again. It may be different from what he was expecting, but her reaction doesn't dampen the way his pulse picks up, not in the slightest.

“I'll take that as a yes?”

“Yeah,” Pidge mumbles. “Please. But no more now. There are only so many Coran references I can handle, and I need to get through the rest of this system data tonight.”

Disappointment pecks at his chest, until she follows up with a quiet, “Besides, I think I may go into A-fib if you keep it up like this.”

He wishes she would turn around so she could see the open, awestruck look he feels molded into his face - more honest than all of his words - but he takes solace in the pluck of warmth that glides between their bond.

“Sure,” he says, just as quiet. “Will I be bothering you if I stay here while you work?”

“Of course not. Be forewarned though, I'm kinda breaking my usual schedule and staying up pretty late tonight.”

“Bold,” he says with a chuckle. “I like it.”

She doesn't reply, but it takes a long moment for her fingers to start up at her keyboard. Smiling, Shiro reclines on the couch and pulls out his data screen to continue his own work.

A satisfied semi-silence nestles between them, accented by the steady churn of Pidge’s keyboard and her occasional comments. Sometimes she's simply thinking out loud, an acknowledging hum all she requires to get back on track, but at other times she'll direct a question his way. Most of her inquiries come as sentence fragments, bits of thought that got lost at some point and found their way to her mouth. He answers when he can and probes when he can't, and they maintain that same easy flow they've had going for days. They happen without effort.

“Come take a look at this?” she asks maybe an hour later.

Having somehow made themselves one with the inflexible couch, his neck and back bristle at the prospect of moving, and it's no easy task to coerce his muscles into behaving. He rubs at his neck as he leans over Pidge's shoulder to check out what's on her screen.

The readouts are from the data they'd compiled earlier that day and reworked to begin developing a flight plan. With three stars cozied up at the center of over seventy inhabited planets, half of which were, as far as they could tell, embroiled in a Galra backed inter-planatary trade dispute, the new system promised to be far more interesting than the expanses of empty space that made up the current one. He and Pidge look over the new route the Castle’s computer plotted, weighing out the risks before ultimately agreeing to scrap the coordinates and start over.

Pidge inputs the adjusted route requirements with a few definitive strokes of her keyboard, and Shiro slides back onto the couch with a grunt.

“You can read on the bed if you want,” she says. “The couch is mega-uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” he replies. He shoves aside the needling Lance-voice in his head that suggests he should only accept her offer under the condition that she join him. The voice can no longer be called intrusive given its constancy, but at least Shiro has gotten better at resisting every temptation mind-Lance proposes.

“You sure? You've been groaning and rubbing at your shoulder for the last few minutes, old man style.”

His hand freezes and slips from where he'd been absently kneading at his shoulder. The crick in his neck throbs from the angle his head had been propped up at. No surprise he's feeling achy after a short time on the couch - he hadn't felt all that different after falling asleep there a few nights ago.

“I wouldn't want to impose,” he says. He rolls his head, stretching his neck, without thinking, and Pidge gives a disapproving cluck.

“One, quit fretting over whether you're being polite or not. We’ve all spent the last five years squished into alien mechanical lions that magically combine into some kind of hivemind giant punchbot. We’re well beyond formality.”

And you and I have basically been in each other’s heads for three days straight, he adds on. Words don’t cross the bond, but ideas and feelings do, and Pidge must pick up on his. She smiles.

“Two,” she continues. “All of your elderly joint popping and huffing aren’t conducive to either of us being productive. Use the bed. You'll be more comfortable.”

Just standing up again leads to a discovery of fresh aches. Pidge’s “I told you so” look follows on the heels of his uncontrolled groan. She may have a point.

“I suppose I can't argue with that logic,” he says, winding around the couch and approaching her bed.

Each of the paladin’s living quarters looked identical, and the small bed is no exception. Like his, it’s narrow but long, with a few shelves and adjustable lights inset along the wall it abuts. Unlike his, the bed is haphazardly made, sheets tossed rather than spread out across it. He's impressed she'd even bothered that much, though there's a chance she’d fallen asleep on top of the covers a few nights ago and flattened them into some sense of order then. Despite Coran's occasional threats of “inspection”, there was really no impetus for any of them to make their beds in the middle of space. Even so, as mussed as it already is, Shiro hesitates to sit. Like everything else in the past week, sitting on a bed seems much more like diving headfirst into a black hole.

With the kind of caution reserved for espionage missions on Galra destroyers, Shiro lowers himself into the bed. His eyes snap over to Pidge the moment he sits, but her attention has already flipped back to her work. He reclines against her pillows. No automated warning alarms go off; no pre-programmed robot comes to chase him away. It's a perfectly normal bed, and he's doing something perfectly normal on it. He's glad Pidge isn't paying him any mind right now. No doubt she'd be amused over his indecision.

He resumes reading on his data screen, in a position far more comfortable than the one he'd been in on the couch. Pidge plugs on.

It's just a bed. Tension slowly seeps from Shiro's body. There's nothing wrong with him being there. It’s fine. They're fine.

He drifts to sleep. …

As before, he doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes up. The room is brighter this time, and when he recognizes the walls surrounding him as Pidge’s, he's flooded not with shock, but an almost gluttonous contentment. Pidge is still at her desk.

Sleep, even though it couldn't have been much, changes his entire outlook regarding her bed, and him being on it. Childish delight overtakes him, that sensation of knowing he shouldn't, but being unable to resist the heady pull of gratification. Shiro buries his face in Pidge's pillow and sucks in a deep breath. Of course she almost never used her bed; Pidge has occupied the room for five years and yet there remains the lingering scent of plasticy newness to the pillow and linens. Undeterred, he inhales again and catches a pleasant whiff: oranges, sweat musk, wisp of burnt plastic. Even the faintest trace of her is a comfort. It’s not much of a stretch for his sleep-laced brain to suggest he drift back to into unconsciousness as is, burrowed in her pillow and close enough to hear her tapping away her work.

Or, at least, he should hear her working. When he’d passed out, it had been to the soft clatter of her fingers on keys. It is silence that overtakes the room now.

Shiro rolls onto his side, then freezes. Pidge stands at the side of the bed, arms stretched over her head, mouth wide in silent yawn. She’s pulled her hair down. Her eyes flutter closed as her yawn trails off, and it seems like an effort for her to peel them back open again to look down at him. Even bathed in the harsh light from her desk, everything about her looks soft, from the hunch of her shoulders to the loose tangles of hair.

She scratches the back of one calf with her foot and murmurs, “Oh good, you’re awake. I was starting to think I’d have to sleep at my desk.” Her lips quirk into a smile. “I don’t know if you know this about yourself, but you’re kind of a bed hog. And a pillow hog.” Her gaze fixes on her pillow, and his arm wrapped around it.

He lets go of the pillow as if it were molten hot, sits up, and scoots back from the edge of the bed. Logic kicks back in a moment later and starts shouting about the fact that he fell asleep in Pidge’s room again, this time in her bed, and that he should probably stop doing that before he found himself in major trouble.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers. “You should have woken me up and kicked me out.”

Pidge dismisses him with a lazy wave, and plops down on the bed next to him. “But then you would have left,” she says. Her voice is gentle but sure.

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Shiro wishes he felt as at ease as she seems lifting her comforter and wiggling to get under it. Unlike him, she doesn’t look as though her heart is about to pound through her chest.

The bed is small, not designed for more than one body. He’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, and doesn’t dare get under them now, but the bit of separation between them feels thin when her foot brushes his leg.

“It’s okay?” he chokes out. It’s different from what he’d told his mouth to say, which was Well, I should head back to my room.

Pidge turns from rearranging her pillow to stare at him. She looks unimpressed.

“Duh. Now budge over.”

Her tone permits no protest, nor does he think he could offer one even if he tried. Wouldn't want to, his mind confesses feebly. Easing over until his back hits the wall, Shiro tries to leave as much space between them as he can. It's not more than a few meager inches, but as Pidge finishes twisting and adjusting, he becomes convinced that the sliver of distance might just be the final remnants of his sanity. He rests his head on one arm to keep it from acting of its own accord and reaching towards her. In place of the glue or restraints he wishes he had, he lays his other arm flat across the line of his body and curls his hand into a fist.

“That looks uncomfortable.”

Pidge wrinkles her nose and fluffs one side of her pillow. She lies on her back, watching him from under heavy eyelids.

“It's fine.” I'm just trying not to invade your space. Or make you feel uncomfortable. Or cross a line. Or assume something I have no right to assume.

“Whatever,” she sighs. He imagines she'd roll her eyes if they hadn't already slipped closed. Raising her voice, she continues, “System, shut off lights and dim data screen, but continue running background trajectory calculations.”

Whatever voice activated system she'd installed chirps twice in confirmation. The room goes black.

He’s felt less anxious while in the cockpit of Kuro while facing down an entire Galra blockade. If it were at all appropriate, he might laugh at how painfully accurate to his character the situation was turning out to be. Star-pilot-turned-tireless-soldier afraid to sleep in a bed with a girl he has feelings for.

But the tension isn't all his; he can feel that much. If the wall he hits when he tentatively reaches out with his bond weren't enough of an indicator, the shallow breaths she takes and then holds, as if waiting, are. Perhaps he wasn't alone in experiencing the vertigo that came along with staring down a very high figurative cliff.

Minutes pass in silence. He’s left to wonder if Pidge is lying in bed just as he is: eyes wide open, body ramrod straight. She'd seemed unusually close to sleep minutes ago, but that was before they'd been drenched in the room’s darkness. Those slim inches between them turn intangible now that he can no longer see. They may as well not exist. And since they no longer exist, he may as well reach across them.

Shiro tries. He really does. His hand hovers above the space between them for a good five ticks before he loses his resolve. It's dark, after all, and Pidge has no idea about how he feels, and she's trusting him enough to let him sleep in her bed. She's allowing him to stay. He won't mess this up.

“Shiro?”

As suspected, all of the sleep has vacated her voice. She sounds as awake and aware as he feels.

“Yeah, Pidge?”

“Relax.”

Her command catches him off guard; he lets out a laugh and tenses, the opposite of what she'd ordered.

“I am relaxing,” he lies. From her snort, she sees right through him.

“For real, though. I know you were trying not to bring it up, but you already know it's okay to stay when your nightmares get to be too much.”

He does already know that, which makes it worse when he admits to himself that it's not the only reason he's there. He wants to say as much, owes it to her to say as much, but even in the anonymity of the dark, he can't find the nerve.

“Thanks,” is all he says instead.

The rustling sound of sheets and the shifting weight on the mattress aren't enough for Shiro to anticipate what happens next: a hand whacks him in the face. Pidge’s fingers roam blind along the bridge of his nose and feel down to his lips. Each light touch feels like the prick of distant stars on his skin: close enough to burn, too far to explore. His breath quavers.

“Is this your face?” Pidge asks.

Shiro nods, and she chuckles.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Guess that should have been obvious.”

Her hand lifts from his face and settles on his chest. She pats along his chest until she reaches his right arm, the one he'd extended towards her but a minute ago. That must have been what she was searching for: she gives a content hum, slides her hand down to his, and takes it.

“Relax,” she says again.

Which is the most painfully funny thing he's heard all night. It doesn't matter that his sense of feel is muted in his Galran arm, that the pressure and heat from her touch are but a fraction of what they'd be had she grabbed for his left hand. Straight fire still rockets up his nerves, quickening his pulse with dizzying intensity. Shiro can't tell if he's experiencing all of the symptoms of fight-or-flight, or something else, but he's certainly not experiencing relaxation.

Her fingers contract around his, hand-holding equivalent of a nervous twitch. Every part of him, from bare feet to breath, is so still that he can hear Pidge's quiet cacophony: soft thumps as her free hand adjusts and readjusts her pillow; the whisper-slide of moving fabric as her legs swim through the sheets; each long, forced exhalation. Her restlessness begs for some sort of harmony, something he'll try to provide despite his own discordant feelings.

“Are you relaxing?” he asks. He runs his thumb up and down the side of her hand.

“No. Are you?”

“No, but that's not unusual.”

They share a choked laugh. He wishes he could see her through the dark, wishes he had more to go off of than her voice, her fingers, and the flecks of feeling that manage to escape her end of the bond. There's a nudge behind his forehead. Like him, Pidge is sending out tentative feelers, trying to gauge what's happening on his end; like her, he’s constricted the passage, letting only the barest of friendly emotions by.

Which is no doubt why she turns to lay on her side facing him and asks, “Shiro, are you nervous?”

Now that she's turned, she brings their joined hands up to rest in the space between them. They are already close to touching, crammed in the tiny bed as they are, but that doesn’t stop Pidge from scooting closer. Her knees knock against his. His heart knocks against his throat.

“I am,” he says, as evenly as he can. “Are you?”

“Yeah. I didn't think I would be, but I am.”

For once, his Lance voice is oddly silent, leaving all of the uncertain, worried parts of his mind to take her words and run with them in eight different directions. What had she anticipated happening? Did she want him gone?

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks. He has to rip the words out of his mouth, a painful process as his heart tries to drag them back in. He doesn't want to hear her answer, but he needs to know that he's not letting his feelings take this too far.

“No,” she says, voice startling in its sharpness. “It’s not you, per se, just-”

Rather than finish, she lets go of his hand. His stomach plummets, then ascends again when she wiggles her other hand between his pillow and neck and wraps her arms around him. She banishes even more of the distance between them.

This close, she looks different without her glasses. This close, he can see how her eyes flick back and forth, scanning his face. It’s too dark to see the flecks of honey-brown that shine out under the light, but he can see the hint of lines crinkling at the corner of her eyes, the promise of handsome wrinkles from too many hours too close to a screen. He can see the rapid flutter of her lashes and feel the puffs of warm breath touch his mouth and cheek.

“It's not you that makes me nervous,” she starts again. “Just being right here, like this-”

She cuts off and stares up at him. He watches her lick her lips. It's a little like tunnel vision, that fixation on what is a right in front of him, the sudden graying out of the world around them. He's experienced it before, those moments right before his ship or his lion spins out: the nothingness beyond his steering controls, the frigid, utter panic that consumes before impact. But instead of ice rising from his gut, it's all taut heat. Her fingers accelerate the burn when they run through the hair at the nape of his neck.

There’s so little still keeping them apart: a blanket, an inch, and his own hesitation. Two of those are eliminated when he finally rests his hand on her waist a pulls her to him. Her lips part in something like surprise, but she does not draw away. It should be awkward, laying on their sides in straight lines, one of her arms trapped under him, but delight and desire are the only things that well up within him. It would take so little to lean in and kiss her. He leans in.

“Can I ask you a question?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” she says. “But can I ask you something first?”

“Of course. Always.”

Pidge regards him in the low light, holding his gaze as her fingers make small circles along his scalp. He ignores the lurch of anticipation below his ribs and occupies himself with mimicking her motion along the small of her back.

“Shiro…” she begins. “From an academic standpoint, how would you define what's going on between us?”

He wishes he could have asked his question first. He wishes he could have kissed out an answer to her inquiry and let her know in no uncertain terms how he would define what he wanted between them. But he has to think about his choice, how best to respond to her. He chews at his bottom lip and flattens his hand against her back.

“From my perspective,” he says, words careful, “there's very little academic about it.”

Her brows dip. Perhaps not his best answer, then.

“Meaning…?” she asks.

There’s no backpedaling from here, no way to pretend this conversation hasn't started. No more evasion or avoidance. Just the two of them, a bed, a bond, and a question. He loosens his mental grip on his end of the bond and braces for the wash of feelings about to come spilling over. Need and happiness and curiosity and anxiety and affection fill him in a flood.

“Meaning I have feelings for you that go beyond that of friend or paladin or peer,” Shiro says, “and I'm hoping that you feel the same.”

Pidge freezes. The warmth from each point of contact between them lingers, but it's otherwise as if she's become a statue. He's not even sure she's breathing. In the dark, he can see nothing of her reaction but the general expression on her face - no blush or paling, no fidget of eye or flare of nose that might give her away. She simply stares at him. He reaches out in his mind to find that she hasn't just obstructed her end of the bond: it's been completely severed. He'd been too deep in releasing his feelings to notice it snap.

Every one of those released emotions bounce back, whip-like and soured by fear. Pidge isn't responding, in word or deed, and it becomes all too possible that Shiro has massively misjudged the situation. Little else could have made her rejection any clearer.

The room is dark and the air unmoving. The hard pounding of his heart is the solitary sound. He's not sure what is more unbearable: Pidge's silence or the fact that his fear may be reality. Both gnaw away at his resilience.

“I'm sorry,” he says, pulling his hand back to him. She blinks, the first sign of life since he'd last spoke. “I'm so sorry.”

“I-” she starts, but it's panic instead of blood that pumps through him now, and he reacts on instinct.

“I-I shouldn't have assumed,” he continues. Shiro sits up, resisting the tug of Pidge's arms around his neck. She lets go of him.

“Please don't think I don't value you as a friend, or a teammate, I wasn't trying to force you into anything you didn't want. I was projecting or seeing something that wasn't- it was irresponsible of me to think-”

“Shiro,” she begins, following him up. “What are you-?” Pidge peers at him, eyes narrowed, like he's speaking a different language. With as fast as his words are dropping now, he may as well be.

Shiro worms his way off the end of the bed past her and stands. “I just- I should go.”

The woosh of her bedroom doors as the open sound like an explosion in his ears; he doesn't know why everyone else isn't startled awake by the boom of it. It’s so loud that he doesn't hear her voice as it trails after him.

Dim and empty hallway greets him, the singular relief in all of this. There are no reflective patches in the halls, but even without a mirror Shiro knows what reads on his face. If he looks even half as distraught as he feels, there'd be no way of keeping what happened from Keith or Lance, or anyone else on the ship, really.

He makes it to his room in record time and activates the lights. All of the waiting nightmares he'd abandoned hours ago for the comfort of Pidge rear up in unison; he sits himself squarely at his desk, reattaches his data screen, and pulls up his reading. There's not going to be any sleep tonight, and he's going to at least go through the motions of attempting to distract himself. He forces a few deep inhales through his nose, but it's not much use.

His heart wails on his ribcage with ugly blows, rattling him from the inside. Although he knows it's not physiologically possible, it feels like the inside of his chest will be bruised from it by morning.

This is what he'd wanted to avoid, now and all those years ago, when he'd sidestepped any sort of serious relationship with anyone. How he'd imagined this all feeling is only a fraction of how hard it actually stings. He clenches his Galra fist until the metal starts to creak. Maybe he should go down to the training deck and work some of that desperation out. There weren't many more hours until breakfast, and Shiro refused to let this keep him from being the leader his team deserved. From being the leader Pidge deserved.

Instead, he sits at his desk. Cradles his head in his hands. Tries to convince himself to read, to be productive, anything.

His door opens. He knows who it is, but turns anyway.

In spite of the way Pidge rests a hip against the door frame and crosses her arms over her chest, her nervousness reads clear on her face. He should have expected that she would follow, would want to clear the air as quickly as possible. Maybe even let him down properly, gently. It’s what he should have done: stayed and discussed it with her, rather than fleeing.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Please. I should apologize,” he starts. “Running off like that wasn't right of me.”

Pidge enters and walks straight over. She avoids the couch across from his desk, and instead stands a few feet from where he sits, hands dangling at her sides.

“It wasn't,” she says. “I haven't seen you react like that to something in a long time. The Galra I get, but me? Am I that scary?”

He can hear her try to lighten her tone, but the joke falls flat. The effort helps, though. Maybe they can salvage something, go back to how things were before.

“You're terrifying,” he says earnestly. “A force to be reckoned with.”

She smiles, and oxygen flows back to his brain.

“You may not believe it,” she says, “but you're pretty scary yourself.”

She takes a step closer. While his brain has registered her earlier dismissal, his body has not. His skin seems to crackle with her nearness, and his fingers ache to interlock with hers.

“I think there's been a misunderstanding,” Pidge continues.

This is it. He rubs his palms on his thighs, then grips his knees.

“We should talk. Should have talked instead of me leaving.”

Pidge, of all things, snorts. While the worry has yet to clear her features, a small smile rises on her lips.

“We should talk,” she affirms. “But before we talk, I am going to talk.”

“Right,” he says. His stomach heaves below his rioting chest. “Absolutely, please go ahead.”

“Okay,” she says with an exhale. “Okay, you can do this, Pidge.”

The air between them is so thick, he wouldn't even need his Galra prosthetic to slice through it. Pidge drags a hand through her hair. It musses it further, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“Shiro, you know how you feel when they've just released the newest build on a desktop computer,” she starts, “and the specs on it are amazing, like, flawless integrated graphics, super efficient cooling, crazy processing: everything you could want.” Pidge has gone into full rambling mode now. Most of the time, it's a habit he finds endearing, but her rushed words lack their usual passionate surety, and she looks everywhere around the room but him.

“And everything about it is sleek and powerful and brilliant and gorgeous,” she continues, picking up speed, “and you can't believe that there’s a chance it could be yours? And so you kind of sit there and stare at in disbelief and act like all of your .exe files have stopped working when it asks you if you want it?”

The breaths between her strings of sentences grow sharp as her body struggles to keep up with how fast her brain must be going. To be fair, Shiro's having difficulty keeping up with her steam train of thought, and all he has to do is be the recipient.

Her final sentence is slow to sink in, but it hits him as she scrapes her stare away from some corner of the room and makes eye contact. It happens all at once: their paladin bond flares to life; he finally gets her meaning; a choir of angels springs to life in his head.

“Are you comparing me to a computer?” Shiro asks. His own voice echoes back in his ears, dancing the line between nervous and so, so hopeful.

The pink of her cheeks deepens to red, and her eyes dart back around the room. It's not enough to break their psychic connection though, and underneath the anxious tension that zings from her side of the bond, he can feel the unadulterated rush of-

“Yeah,” Pidge spits out, “yeah, I am.”

Even though she's not looking at him, she takes a step forward. In the already small space around his desk, it finally puts her within reach. Her hand is at just the right height for him to wrap in his, so he does. Her fingers twine with his a moment later.

“Not that I think of you like some kind of fancy machine,” she says. “Well, I mean, I do in a way, but only like, for the sake of analogy, because you know I really like computers and machines, even though machines are probably more Hunk’s thing-”

“Pidge.”

She stops, meets his gaze again, and it's like a warm fist encircles his lungs and squeezes, hard. Never before did he think that joy could hurt; in that moment, Shiro decides that elation is his favorite kind of pain. He has to suck in a long breath before he can continue.

“I understand,” he says.

Relief sweeps over her face, softening the hard lines of her brow. Her shoulders slump forward. He squeezes her hand.

“Thank goodness,” she breathes. “I realized what you must have thought when I froze up, and then I couldn't get my brain back online fast enough and you were gone, so I thought that you thought I didn't feel the same way, when really…” She trails off. “When in reality I have feelings for you that go beyond that of a friend or a paladin or whatever.”

For a long moment, all he can do is stare at her and grin. It's fortunate that that's all she seems capable of too. Fire blooms across his brain and courses through his chest before swinging up through his arm and crossing straight to her. Their bond feels more like a physical connection, pulsing through his entire system and strengthening as the space between them shrinks. He takes her other hand, and a single, shared feeling loops and spirals between them, ecstatic.

“I'm glad you feel the same way,” he says, though the sentiment doesn't even scrape the surface of what surges across their link.

“So am I. Next time, I'll compute and respond rather than go into a system failure.”

Raising an eyebrow, Shiro tugs Pidge close. He parts his knees enough for her to slot between them as she stands.

“Next time?” he asks.

Her eyes dip down, roving over their joined hands. She bounces from foot to foot before murmuring, “I hope you’ll tell me how much you like me again sometime.”

“I like you a lot,” he says immediately. Now that the words are out, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop them. “I think you’re brilliant, and hilarious, and strong, and very pretty.”

Pidge goes quiet again, but this time, he’s not worried. Instead, he admires the minute shifts of her face: the upward quirk of lips, the crinkle at the corners of her eyes. It takes her a few more ticks before she shakes her head.

“System response time is still laggy,” she says with a laugh. “Will need to run some more tests before troubleshooting.”

“I’d be happy to help at any time.”

Their movement is unconscious but synchronous, either a facet of the bond or a knowing reaction to the other. Pidge raises her hands to rest on his shoulders. His skim her hips. She curves down. He looks up. Her hair tumbles from her shoulders and seems to curtain them both; the inches between them are so few that he hears clearly what she says next.

“In that case, perhaps you’d be willing to assist me now. I’d like to test something.”

“A test?” he asks. He cranes his neck up so that his nose brushes hers.

“Mhm. A test. For science.”

When her lips capture his, they also engulf his laugh. After that, his amusement takes second place to the feel of her against him. Chapped but plush, her lips move slow across his, drawing out kiss after kiss. Shiro holds firm to her hips, though there’s no indication she’ll be leaving soon.

It’s been ages since he's kissed, but with Pidge it's like flying a plane: the mechanics all come back in one exhilarating swoop. Once their mouths find the right rhythm he's free to chart the terrain of her lips, letting tongue and teeth map out new territory. Parted lips give greater freedom to explore. He tallies every gasp drawn out by scraping teeth and moan from sliding tongues, then promptly forgets that and his own name the moment Pidge swings a leg over his and drops into his lap.

No element carries the proper comparison for how it feels to be joined with her in this way; fire doesn't burn hot enough and electricity doesn't spark sharp enough and water can't drown him fast enough. It hits Shiro all at once, and all he can do is cling tighter to her and deepen their kiss.

Pidge is more than happy to oblige, lifting up in his lap to better angle herself against him. Deft and clever, she seems to know the right way to curl her tongue along his to make him shudder. He does his best to return the favor in every way possible. He leans back in the chair and she follows, letting gravity pull them flush. She plants her hands on the back of the chair for stability and dives back to his mouth.

Gravity pulls them closer, and then gravity gives a particularly petulant backwards yank on Shiro’s chair. They jolt apart as the chair tips back. Pidge’s arms flail in haphazard circles as she leans back to counteract the tilt; Shiro smacks a hand against the desk and plants his feet on the ground. The chair tips back forward.

They gaze at one another. Chests rise and stutter and fall, half-gasping, half-laughing as they regain a sense of stability. Brain still hazy from lack of oxygen, Shiro can only take in the sight of Pidge, red and dazed-looking and straddling him.

“Test results?” he manages.

“Inconclusive,” she pants. “As before, outlook is positive, but more testing is necessary.”

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

She hops out of his lap and snags his hand, pulling him up. He follows. While his body balks at the loss of contact, his mind is quick to provide a long list of ways that this change of setting could be much, much better. The voice sounds nothing like Lance, and everything like himself.

Stopping at his bedside, Pidge wrinkles her nose. Shiro comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, and rests his head on her shoulder to see what she’s looking at. Everything, from the standard two pillows to his folded top sheet, looks normal.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s too pristine,” she says, gesturing towards the bed. “No wonder you don’t sleep. I figure that bed’s in its original condition from 10,000 years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a layer of perfectly formed dust that’s molded to the shape of the bed. It’s immaculate.”

While she’s speaking, Shiro learns that their position allows him access to new skin. He nuzzles against her neck and lets his lips find their way to the shell of her ear. She shivers against him. Emboldened, he presses his chest to her back and murmurs, “I know a decently made bed is foreign turf for you, but if it makes you that uncomfortable, maybe we can mess it up so it’s to your standard.”

Pidge exhales hard and cranes her head to look at him. “Damn, the Garrison did a good job designing you,” she says, eyes going wide. “That suave from zero to sixty switch is cutting edge.”

“Is that the only reason you like me?” he says with a chuckle. “Because you think I’m a robot?”

She turns in his arms and pouts. “No, I like you because I think you’re a very handsome and capable robot. I have standards.”

Laughing, Shiro guides them both to the edge of the bed. Pidge lays down first, reclining against one of his pillows, then stretches her arms out to him. He eagerly complies.

Unlike the slow heat of their first kisses, when they meet again it’s with dizzying urgency. Pidge pulls his bottom lip between hers and sucks hard; he moans and takes the next opportunity he can to slip his tongue into her mouth. Hands roam and bodies twist and shift, moving but never parting. They stay joined at the mouth as Shiro rolls her on top of him, then trails his hands down her waist and over the curve of her ass.

If time were measured by the deep, gasping inhales Shiro takes in between kissing, and being kissed, senseless, then no more than three or four ticks seem to have passed. In reality, it has to be closer to half an hour that they spend, pressed chest-to-chest and mouth-to-mouth. Pidge is half-draped over him, one knee wedged between his legs to give her enough support as her hands set their own course.

With time they slow, bodies losing steam even as hearts pump more molten blood through their veins. Touches grow tender and kisses soft. Shiro breaks away first, drawing in a breath and resting back on the pillow. Pidge melts, puddle-like, her face tucked against his collarbone. Her heavy exhales leave a damp patch on his shirt. Next time, perhaps he’d remove it.

“Hunk’s going to lose his shit when he finds out,” Pidge mutters.

He massages up and down her back and processes her words. Being here with her, like this, Shiro hadn’t given much thought to the other members of the team. A big part of him resists taking a moment more to consider them, instead insisting that every ounce of his attention should be focused on the woman before him. As such, his response comes after a long lull.

“Keith and Lance will, too.”

She huffs into his shirt and shakes her head. “I thought they were acting funny. So I guess it’s just Allura and Coran who aren’t aware.”

Shiro thinks back to Coran’s frantic reaction at dinner, and all of Allura’s sly smiles. It should have been obvious even then; Allura was right about him the entire time.

“No, I think they have an idea of what’s going on as well.”

She groans a bit, and finally pushes herself up from his chest. “It was bad enough with Hunk pestering me about it for months. He’s been on such a kick since we entered the system, trying to get us together with all of his experiments and what not. Everyone else giving us a hard time is going to be torture.”

“Are you saying that Hunk planned on nearly setting the ship on fire just to set us up?” he asks. As soon as he says it he knows the answer.

Pidge bites her lip and looks away, expression caught somewhere between sheepish and mischievous. “Yeah. But I may have helped him. And gone along with everything else. You may have noticed this, but he’s way better at people and relationships than me.”

“It was probably for the best,” he assures her. “Word on the ship is I’m pretty oblivious to my own feelings, let alone someone else’s.”

She doesn’t disagree, nor does she expect her too. Instead, she wraps his hand in hers and says, smiling, “I’m glad you figured it out.”

“Me too.”

Without letting go of his hand, she slips off of him and settles down at his side. He tucks his free arm under her and watches as she gets comfortable. He can’t say he’s ever experienced the sensation of his heart fluttering, but it does so now. The emotion that’s sailed across their bond breaks back down into its component parts: affection, safety, happiness, contentment. It gives him the confidence to ask his next question, knowing that she won’t rebuff or reject.

“So, how do you want to approach this?” he asks. “Us? And them?”

She gives a soft hum, thinking. “I’d like to be with you, like this, for however long is right. Hopefully that’s a long time,” she starts. “Titles aren’t really important to me - friend, partner, teammate, girlfriend, whatever - because I feel like whatever we have going on between here,” Pidge taps her temple, then runs a finger from his temple and down his jaw, “makes more sense than anything else.”

He takes her hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “I like partner,” he says. “It makes it sound like we could get in trouble together.”

Her eyes narrow, but her smile sticks.

“You’ve never gotten in trouble a day in your life,” she deadpans. “And don’t try to deny it.”

“I’ve gotten into trouble plenty,” he protests. “You just didn’t know me then.”

“I don’t believe it, but I’ll ask Keith. If anyone has dirt on you, it’s him.”

A drop of panic hits his stomach - who knows what Keith, under the influence of Lance, would tell Pidge about Shiro’s Garrison days (which were, admittedly, boring outside of a few extreme exceptions) - but it’s quickly soothed when Pidge arches up and kisses the corner of his lips. Her touch leaves a warm spot on his skin and deep in his chest. There was nothing he wanted, or needed, to hide from her.

“Speaking of Keith,” he says, “How do you want to handle telling everyone?”

Sighing, Pidge rolls her eyes. “They’re going to be so obnoxious.”

“Uh huh.”

“Has Lance been making your life miserable about it?”

“He certainly has.”

“And Keith?”

“Less so, but he’s been more persistent.”

A sly look crosses Pidge’s face. The smile she gives him is like an injection of jetfuel straight to his bloodstream. He draws her in closer. Her eyes focus on a point just beyond him, into some space where she’s no doubt calculating what’s about to come.

“What if…” she starts. “What if we didn’t tell them yet?”

Oh, now that was a curious idea.

“And kept them thinking that we were still unaware of each other’s feelings?” he adds on.

That sly look turns utterly wicked, and when she grins, she bares teeth. “It would eat them all up.”

“They’d lose it,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fair to keep them on edge for so long.”

He can hear his heart hammering away in his ears, and the sensation that charges across their link from Pidge is tinted dark red and tastes like desire. He pushes himself up and over, bracketing her with his body.

“Just for a little while,” Pidge says. She licks her lips. “To see how they react.”

Shiro smirks. “For science?”

Pidge chuckles. He feels her fingernails drag down his back.

“For science,” she confirms. “And for fun.”

Shiro drops down to take possession of her lips. It would be fun.

[singingbun]

A potential Victorian Sherlolly Fic

Ch1 part 1 / part 2 | Ch 2 part 1 / part 2 | Ch 3 part 1 / part 2 / part 3 | Ch 4 part 1 / part 2 / part 3 | Ch 5 part 1 / part 2 | Ch 6 part 1 / part 2 / part 3 | AO3 link

Hi Sherlollians. I’m still trying out on this new fandom and quite frankly, it seems that my fics often come down as little flat regarding this ship. And then after watching TAB, I had an idea of a Molly-centric plot where it obviously/ could potentially have Sherlock in it as a main candidate of focus as well. Set in the Victorian era, and to those of you who are familiar with my other works outside of the fandom, I am a less romantic writer and more plot driven when it came down to writing. (of course there too much internal dialogues to add to that list). I have this thing as a prologue/trial fic and I have no idea whether I should continue on this. This fic was inspired by the fic “I demand you speak” by @mae-jones whom I found through Ao3 as well as other victorian sherlolly fics that were all so wonderfully written. Okay. Here. We. Go.

Prologue

It is only fitting that our story begins with death.

In the soot and smog-filled air of Victorian London, the Hooper family household mourned for the loss of its head and its heir on that same month. Margaret ‘Molly’ Hooper stood before her father’s deathbed, fingers clutched at the fabric of her clothes as her tears blotted onto her lap.

First it was her brother, Manuel Hooper; a man with a promising future and the only member left to carry the legacy of their family name. As much as Molly merely tolerated her brother to a certain degree, news of his death was a terrible blow for her as much as it did for the rest of the family.

“How did it all go so wrong” was a question that hovered over her head as the events unfurled itself before her. During that time, she had already finished her medical degree; Manuel and her father had plans to celebrate this supposedly happy event before the tragedy occurred. It was unsettling to them, as they were never given a proper explanation of how he died; much less of why he was found in a ditch of some unknown street.

Her father took it the hardest of all of them; he had high hopes for his son, only to have it all torn up. A day after the news of Manuel’s death, her father collapsed so suddenly and was reduced to a bed-ridden, heartbroken state. Molly had heard stories of how her father had suffered after the loss of his wife for the first few months. To see him in such a state torn her inside and out, as he was neither eating nor drinking, much less on speaking. With the next two weeks, she knew her father wouldn’t last long and called for a doctor for a second opinion.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Hooper,” he said. “I’m afraid I cannot help you on this one.”

“Is there nothing to be done?” she fought to control the quiver of her voice, only to crack with emotion. “Please tell me, I need to know.”

The man’s eyes looked at her with pity.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But it appears that he lost the will to live. The only way for him to recover is to rekindle that will of his; give him a reason to live another day. But other than that, this matter is out of my hands.”

In her medical profession, not once had she ever thought she would see a patient dying from a case of a broken heart. A sense of helplessness shook her very bones at the situation. She knew she needed to do something about it.

A day after hearing the doctor’s diagnosis, she climbed up the stairs to her brother’s former room, hoping to seek for the comfort of what remnants her brother had left behind. The rusting hinges sang as she opened the door, the wood moaning at the weight of her steps. Signs of the need for maintenance was evident at cracks on the walls.

The sight of the empty dresser across the room brought tears to her eyes as she could have sworn she saw the silhouette of her brother sitting on the vacant chair.

“Why did you have to go?” she stifled her cries. “Oh Brother, why did you have to leave us all behind?”

She hastened her steps into the room, for once never caring about matters of propriety about entering another man’s room. She slumped into her brother’s bed to sob onto the covers, only to feel a lump underneath the mattress. She groaned at the pain she received from that bump, bringing her to pull herself out of the bed.

Molly was well aware that curiosity had its consequences, but the temptation of wanting to know what laid there underneath that layer of cotton and feathers compelled her to lift the mattress and feel what was lying beneath it.

Relying on the sense of touch, she felt a coarse object underneath the pads of her fingers. She grabbed hold of the object, and pulled it from underneath, only to reveal a worn-down cedar cigar box. Without any sort of expectation, she slid the box open and found tufts of short hairs and all assortments of accessories that could only be used for discreet disguises.

More questions were raised at the sight of the two wigs and faux moustaches and side burns.

“Dear brother,” she whispered as her fingers rummaged through the box almost frantically. “What on earth were you up to?”

Two days after uncovering her brother’s secret possessions, her father had begun to show clearer signs of his deterioration. His cheeks began to hollow, his already withering skin sagged against the bone, and his eyes greying as he sat against the headrest of his bed. Molly held his hand, warming them in hopes of making him see her way but to no avail. He had his eyes fixed towards the window, vacant and despondent as if he were expecting someone.

“Father,” she pleaded. “You have to eat something.”

Her father answered in silence.

“You can’t go on like this,” she continued. “Please father. For your sake and mine.”

Silence.

“If Manuel were with us, he wouldn’t want to have you go on like this.”

He twitched at the sound of her brother’s name, only to have the weary man close his eyes as his face slowly contorted itself into grief.

“-Father-”

“If your brother were here,” the man lowly whispered. “I wouldn’t be like this.”

He removed his hand from her grip and rested it over his abdomen. Her eyes glistened as her tears threatened to fall down on her cheeks. She loved her father very much, just as she was well aware how much he loved her and Manuel equally. But as of this point, she couldn’t see it in her father’s eyes.

She sprung up from her seat, excused herself from her father’s room and ran straight into her brother’s room. She collapsed on top of the covers, pounding onto the soft fabrics and cried out. When there were no tears left, without a second thought she slid her arm underneath the mattress and touched the cigar box, as though she was seeking comfort or assurance in that concealed object.

For whatever reason there was, she suddenly felt inclined to seek for answers. Why did her brother have to die? What was it that killed him? For what purpose would he decide to possess a full set of disguises underneath his mattress?

She pulled out the box and slid it open once more, flicking through the tufts of hair and a tiny bottle of what she could only assume would be the substance that held the false moustache in place. She didn’t know what it was that she was looking for, but by the time she reached the bottom of the box a small yellowing piece of paper laid there.

Molly reached for the item, only to be interrupted by sound of scratching from the window. She gasped a little, turning her head towards the window sill and spotted a cat perched outside of her brother’s window.

She propped the box onto the bed and strode her way towards the window. Unlocking the latch of her window in an attempt to shoo the feline away, the furry creature pounced into the room without a care in the world.

“What are you doing here,” she said, resting a hand onto her waist. “Shoo, you and I are not supposed to be here.”

The feline mewed, making its merry way around the room. She made the effort to chase after it, only to have the mischievous creature hop onto the bed and drew nearer towards the opened cigar box. As soon as the feline began to paw at the tufts of hair, she grabbed hold of the cat under its front paws. Turning it around to have it face her, she looked at the creature crossly.

“You,” she began as she darted a look at the feline, “have no right to claw your way around this room. And what on earth were you doing here, climbing three stories high above the ground, without a care about what happens to you?”

The creature answered with a mew.

She paused for a thought.

“You don’t look the sort to be scared of human company, now are you?” she said dubiously.

The cat meowed again.

She sighed as she shook her head, feeling ridiculous at the idea of scolding this four-legged animal. Molly then took notice of the side-burn pieces that clung to its claw.

“Whatever intents and purposes you have for touching those things, do not do that again,” she chided. “Do you understand?”

The feline blinked.

She nodded and sat at the edge of the bed, taking the pieces from its paw. Molly then propped the feline onto the floor, only to have it jump onto her and curl itself onto her lap.

“You know you’re making this difficult for me,” she said, darting a look at the unsuspecting feline as it yawned without a care in the world.

Having the feline restraining her movements, she twisted her torso to reach for the cigar box behind her as she returned the pieces to its proper place. When she managed to achieve her goal, her eyes returned to the cat on her lap as soon as she heard it purr loudly.

She first thought she had grown passed the age of carelessly approaching a stray cat, but at the sight of this curious creature, her heart swelled in adoration almost immediately. She then caressed its fur lightly on her fingers, bringing out louder purrs with every stroke.

Molly then looked up and caught sight of her reflection, her eyes dyed with a hazel brown hue, her small lips and her pointed nose. In her recollection, there were times in the past where they were often told how she and her brother looked alike in almost every facial feature. Save for her smaller stature, the difference in the size of their jawlines along with the blatant fact that he is a man just as she is a woman.

Her thoughts then returned to her father whose mourning had taken a toll on his health. The good doctor’s advice crept into her thoughts as she tried to rake through a solution to their predicament. She wanted to wallow herself into self-pity, but the fate of her father comes first in mind.

And then, just like that, there a thought planted a seed in her mind’s eye.

So. What do you think? I’m really hesitant to even put this up on my Ao3 account because in all honesty I don’t know how to tag this piece of work on Ao3 or even know whether I should continue with this. (only tagging sherlolly mainly cause I want to hear want you sherlolly fans think)

And its waaay past my bed time. Its 1:30 in the morning, so see you in the next 5-6 hours later...