#this is a drawing from last year that i still like

[maaarine]

Why are British teenage girls so unhappy? Here’s the answer (Caitlin Moran, The Times, Sep 13 2024)

"The report, by the Children’s Society, found that British 15-year-old girls are the most unhappy in Europe.

British girls aged 10-15 are “significantly less happy” with their life, appearance, family and school than the average boy — and their happiness is still declining.

Boys’ life satisfaction, meanwhile, remains broadly stable. (…)

But I still didn’t have an “aha!” moment about why this so disproportionately affects girls until… I talked to some teenage girls.

It was at a party, and I went to vape with them on the patio. Because I take my nicotine like children do.

“Duh — it’s the boys,” one said when I brought it up, as all the others agreed.

“The boys?” I asked.

My last book, What About Men?, had been all about how much boys struggle these days: their loneliness; their suicide rates. I’d spent the past year feeling very sympathetic towards boys.

“Yeah, well, who do you think they’re taking out their unhappiness on? It’s us,” another girl said.

“One boy at school used to draw a picture every day of how ugly I was,” a third girl said. “Every day for two years.”

“They’ve all got ‘Rate The Girls’ polls on their WhatsApps,” the first said. “They mark you down for weight gain, haircuts, what you say.”

“But then, if you’re hot, it’s just as bad, in a different way, because they’ll be talking about how they want to f*** you.”

The girls discussed coping techniques. Bad news: none of them worked.

“The only way you can stop them is if you become ‘one of the boys’ and hang out with them. But then,” the second girl said with a sigh, “all the other girls call you a slut. Because you’ve gone over to the boys’ side.”

“Surely it’s not all the boys?” I said. “There must be some nice boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” one girl said. “But they keep their heads down. Because… well, look.”

She showed me the Instagram account of her friend. Under every picture she posted of herself — smiling in a new dress; with her dog — dozens of anonymous accounts had replied with the most rank abuse.

“Fat.” “Slut.” “You gonna try and kill yourself again, for attention?”

“They’re all boys from her school,” she said. “And look, this one boy tried to defend her.”

I saw a series of messages from a brave teenage boy, posting things like, “You’re all big men, leaving these replies under anonymous accounts.”

As I could see, this boy immediately became a target too. Mainly accusations that he was “white knighting” this girl: “You wanna f*** her, bro?”

“So,” I asked, “you don’t think it’s social media pressure to be beautiful, or the economy, that’s making girls so sad?”

“Well, yeah, them too,” the first girl said. “But, Monday-Friday, 9-3, I’m not on social media. I’m not… in the economy. I’m just with these boys. And no one talks about how horrible they are.”

I thought about another recent report, showing a 30 per cent ideological gap between Gen Z men, who are increasingly conservative, and Gen Z women, who are increasingly progressive.

I thought about Andrew Tate, who has nine million mostly young male followers — and faces human trafficking charges, which he denies.

And I thought: maybe these girls are on to something. Maybe more people need to vape with teenage girls and ask them for the school gossip."

[andhumanslovedstories]

I am not closely following the election results tonight, but I am occasionally seeing flashes of them out of the corner of my eye. The most obvious sign that things aren’t going well right now is the complete lack of celebrating on my dash. I know what tumblr looks like when it’s happy. Maybe I’ll go to bed tonight and see something different in the morning. I hope to god that is the case. But I’m thinking about the way I’m thinking right now, and I want to get some stuff down before the future kicks in.

In 2016 I was in a period of my life I affectionately refer to as as my fuckup era. I wasn’t even fucking up really. More just chilling out and falling short of the vague expectations I’d had about what I was supposed to be doing after I graduated college. While my friends from college rented apartments in the city and got jobs that didn’t supply you with a uniform shirt, I lived at home and worked as a barista at a fancy movie theater. That’s a real job you can do for almost five years. I didn’t have a clue what the back half of my twenties should look like. The only long term plan I had in my life was moving out west with my best friend, and my plan for finding a job once I was out there was basically to cross my fingers and hope.

Those days weren’t bad on the whole, but it felt like I was not actually living a life so much as I was goofing off in the waiting room. Sometimes that felt embarrassing, sometimes it felt fun, and sometimes it felt like I was completely pointless to the world.

On 2016’s Election Day, I went to bed early. After watching the votes come in, I needed the night to be over. I woke in a world that felt different than it had been the night before—not just in the actuality of who would be president but down to its foundations. I realized for the first time how much hope I’d had in human nature because now I didn’t feel it anymore. It’s almost silly when I think about it—so many horrible things had already happened that year, people had done horrible things as long as there have been people, and I didn’t think I was naive to that—but something clicked into place that morning.

It felt the same way my world had changed a year earlier, in 2015 during my last semester of college. My college victory lap felt like a prolonged downward spiral. Very early in the morning on a Monday, after pulling an all-nighter and overwhelmed by self-loathing that I could not just motivate myself to work on a paper that had been my only thought all weekend, I self-harmed for the first time in a way that was impossible to pretend it was anything else. Earlier that weekend, I’d tried staving off the urges drawing or writing on my arm, something that did (and does) usually work. I’d written this quote in silver sharpie on my forearm: “Good is not a thing you are. It's a thing you do.”

I picked that quote from the Ms. Marvel comics and liked the words so much, I thought that I wouldn’t be willing to purposefully mess it up by hurting myself there. Didn’t work. They just made me feel more ashamed of myself as I did it.

That was the worst I had ever felt. Then, on the Friday of that week, a friend of mine was senselessly, brutally murdered.

It doesn’t feel now like there was ever a time before her death. My memoir class is now where I wrote about her. My favorite professor is now the one who held me as I cried. My final thesis, the culmination of my history degree, never got finished and certainly never got polished. I turned it what I had and got an A minus. Sometimes I think of rereading that paper to see if that’s the grade it actually deserved. We hadn’t been the closest friends, but my name was still on the email admin sent to professors, listing students who might be emotionally affected by this tragic event. Grace’s murder hangs over every memory I have with her and everything she ever touched. It feels like its own type of obliteration to leave her reduced to her death.

Grace wanted to be a lawyer because she believed in justice and also liked arguing. She could be rude when she wasn’t interested in what you were saying. When you caught her attention, you felt like the most fascinating person in the room. She was so proud of being Jewish. I watched her become proud of being gay. She was so universally friendly that it took me a year to realize that she actually liked specifically me. She had a somewhat silly laugh and an astonishingly luminous smile.

I thought less of the world and the people in it because of how she died. Trump’s election in 2016 felt like that.

After he won, I left stasis. From November through December, I thought harder about my future than I ever had before. Who did I want to be? What did I most value? What did I think was worth protecting? What work wouldn’t kill me to do? At one point, in presumably a fit of madness, I thought, “what if I got into politics.” Epiphany eventually hit me. By the time of Trump’s inauguration, I was already enrolled at community college, getting my pre-reqs for nursing school.

Now it’s election night again, eight years later. I live on the west coast with my best friend, in a house that we bought together. I work as a nurse in a hospital in a city where there are homeless encampments off every highway and someone begging for change on every corner. Meanwhile, there’s Palestine. Meanwhile there’s Sudan. Meanwhile refugees drown in the sea and border patrol shoots jugs of water. Even hurricanes have human cruelty now.

I don’t think people are inherently good or the universe inherently kind. But I am very good at tricking myself into thinking it for a little while, and when I do, I can remember the a specific feeling from Friday of my senior year, from that morning in November— how fucking hard the disappointment hit me because I had expected people to be better than this. It makes me want to be better than that.

I believe, and hope that I always will, that we can make a better world. I don’t know what it looks like, but I think I will see it in my lifetime. Those of us who can believe such things owe a bit of that naïveté to the world—not to excuse atrocities or think them impossible but to believe that we can stop them at all. You have to have a couple people sprinkled around who are genuinely shocked when people do bad things. It’s not that the pessimists are wrong, but you need the occasional counterbalance. I want to be a reasonable cynic’s pleasant surprise.

Every shift, I interact with people at their lowest and worst. I see the direct pipeline from pain to anger to violence, and how fragile that pipeline can be. So many situations can be changed by things as small as a warm blanket or a kind word. Violence can be quite easy to avert. Crises can be quite simply to resolve. Even when I know that whatever I do that shift will not change the circumstances of a person’s life, I think that what I do that shift still matters.

I’m lying in bed, writing this post instead of looking at the news. I wonder how tonight will change me. Been thinking about what I’ll do if Trump wins. Been thinking about how whatever I think I need to do under Trump will still need to be done if Harris clutches out a victory. I guess this is a pessimist’s optimism: to a degree the election doesn’t matter. Good is not a thing you are. It is a thing you do. Our better world will always take a lot of work.

But please god please, why can’t it be just a little easier to do it?

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 1

Or: a secret Admirer AU

Less than a month into the school year, and Steve’s already making use of the library. If Mrs. Click could see him now, she’d be proud–until she caught sight of the blank notebook page in front of him and the lack of textbooks on the table. 

He feels stupid; he’s hunched over his notebook, trying to make his thoughts transfer onto the page in any coherent form. But, he’s not like Eddie with his impassioned speeches and clever English papers.

Words flow through Eddie in fully-formed, concrete ideas. For Steve, it’s more of a drip. Each word has to be scaffolded onto the previous one with blood, sweat, and tears. Even then, it’s never quite right. Too abrupt, never what he was actually trying to say.

He’s just never been good with words.

By the time he gives up, there’s more crossed out than left written, so he gets a clean page of paper and transcribes it as best he can. He’s left with:

       Your hair is pretty. Do you use conditioner?

Steve tears it from his notebook and lays it flat atop his table in the library, smoothing out any crinkles in the page. It feels like the start to something, sure, but there’s more blank space on the page than words. By a lot.

He leans back over his work, adds a little wonky heart in his blue pen and signs the whole thing—

       ❤ your secret admirer

—the way all the girls who leave notes in his locker do. Their notes are usually on pretty paper, written in sparkly gel pen that smells like strawberries. The i’s are sometimes dotted with little hearts he’ll never admit to finding cute. And there’s envelopes involved, and usually more than eleven measly words.

His looks like something Eddie’ll toss out before opening, mistaking it for trash.

Steve grimaces. How do girls do this? Do they all take some sort of class on how to write pretty letters on pretty enough paper that boys will fall in love with them? Is that what they teach in Home Ec? He should have never let Tommy mock him into switching to shop class.

Should he ask a girl?

Under no conditions will he ever ask Carol. She’d have far too many uncomfortable questions and tell the whole school all of his embarrassing answers. He’d be run out of town within days, Carol holding the sharpest pitchfork.

Steve leans back in his chair with a groan too loud for the library and fists his hands to rub tired eyes.

“Are you okay?” Steve jerks, sending his pen and paper careening to the ground in his attempt to cover the compromising words upon the page. “Oh, sorry!”

Steve watches, horrified, as Chrissy Cunningham bends down to pick his supplies up off the carpet before he’s had time to scramble out of his chair. She’s in her cheer uniform, white zip-up Hawkins hoodie covering her arms. She looks perfect and preppy and just like all the girls who’ve ever left a note in his locker.

She’d be able to write something that Eddie would want to read.

“Steve?” Chrissy’s hovering over him, lips pursed, eyes big and worried. “Are you okay?”

“Shit, sorry,” he replies. She’s got his note clutched to her chest. He curls his fingers against the urge to reach out for it—that’ll just draw her attention, and that’s the last thing Steve wants right now. “Just got lost in my head.”

“Anything I can help with?”

He knows what she’s going to do before it happens. Chrissy’s sweet—if there’s a way to help, she’ll want to. So, she holds out the paper and begins to read, probably expecting an assignment she can tutor him on, and there they are: Steve’s damning words written in still-wet blue ink.

Her brow furrows as she takes an obscene amount of time mouthing out the words before she looks back up to meet his eyes. “Did someone give this to you?”

Her eyes are still big, but they look sad now, like just the thought of someone receiving the note he’d slaved over is enough to distress her. Unable to help himself, Steve snatches it from her hands and crumples it into a ball, damning words hidden in his fist.

Chrissy gasps at his abrupt movement and takes a halting step away.

“I wrote it,” he mutters, no longer able to meet her eyes.

She’s silent for long enough that he’d think she left, except the library’s quiet, and he hasn’t heard her take a step. He stares at the grains of the wood in the table, empty hand rubbing against the smudged top as he waits for her to do something.

“Are you…” she starts, trailing off for a moment before picking her thought back up, “…picking on someone?”

Steve clenches his fist tighter, note crinkling beyond repair beneath his nails as he mutters, “no.”

Chrissy’s quiet again. Steve doesn’t dare to look up, even as he hears the chair across from him pull out, the sound of her weight settling into the wood. The table’s just so interesting. Nothing has ever been as intriguing as the little chip out of its edge, the ring on the wood where someone had let their drink condensate against all the library’s rules.

“Who’s this for?” Chrissy’s voice is soft now, like he’s some sort of horse, prone to bolting when spooked. “Steve?”

Steve looks up. Her eyes aren’t sad anymore; they’re piercing.

He’s always liked Chrissy. She’s the nicest girl in the school, until someone does something she doesn’t like. Then, it’s all disappointed eyes, and pouty lips. It’s like disappointing his Mom, but worse, because his Mom’s never around to stare balefully at him.

The point is, Chrissy’s nice. She’s not like Carol. If he told her, there would be no lynch mob, or fleeing Hawkins in the dead of the night with nothing but the clothes on his back. Probably. Maybe.

Steve tries to smooth out the page, and scowls down at it when the wrinkles refuse to disappear. It’s even worse now, words made illegible by the deep creases his fingers have pressed into the paper. There’s no way Eddie’d ever want a note like this.

So, he says, “Munson,” looking up to try to watch his meaning land on her face.

It doesn’t. Her foreheads all scrunched up as she looks down at the note. Only then does Steve realize he’s caressing the wonky little heart. He pulls his hand back, curling his fingers in so she can’t see the smudge of blue on his pointer finger.

“And you aren’t making fun of him?”

Steve can feel his shoulders drooping. He wants to disappear into the floor, melt into the carpet and become one with all the other mysterious stains upon it. “No.”

“Oh,” Chrissy replies, drawn out and low as she peers down at the crinkled note with a confused frown. But something must click because she straightens, eyes wide beneath her bangs. “Oh!”

It’s loud enough that they both reflexively flinch. But, when no librarians come skulking around any corners, Chrissy turns back to him, gaze uncomfortably intent. Steve wonders, somewhat horrified by the turn his life has taken, if he’s about to get hate-crimed by a cheerleader half his size.

But Chrissy’s nice—always has been, always will be. So, she bites her lip and looks furtively around like she’s only just realized this is a conversation that shouldn’t have any witnesses. “But you like him?” she whispers.

Steve leans forward, matching her energy and pitch as he replies, “yeah,” quiet enough that it’s barely a breath. Chrissy smiles at him, warm and small, just like her hand as she reaches across the table to put it over his and squeeze comfortingly.

The note sits, damningly soiled beneath their linked hands, wrinkled, and smudged, and barely-legible handwriting. The weight that’d lifted with Chrissy’s smile sinks back into his gut.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Steve says, letting go of her hand so he can pull the note closer to himself. “I’m no good at this stuff.”

Steve crinkles the note back up. It’s unsalvageable—a stupid idea executed badly.

He’s in the middle of stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans to keep his keys company until he can toss it out in the comfort of his home when Chrissy says, “maybe I can help?” voice lilting up, like it’s a question.

Steve meets her eyes, hand still half-shoved in his pocket. She’s all earnest now, the way she usually is when there isn’t a sad boy infecting her with his own ineptitude. Eyes shining with conviction, bangs curling sweetly around her face. She’s no Carol, that’s for sure.

“How?” he asks, and when she smiles, it looks a bit like hope.

***

 “I can help you write a better letter,” Chrissy starts. He perks up like a dog the moment its owner gets home. “If you do something for me.”

She feels like scum when he curls back into himself, gaze forlorn.

When she’d caught sight of the note he’d spent what seemed like a full hour pouring over, this isn’t what she’d been expecting. And when she’d finally made out his chicken scratch scrawl, she’d been sure Steve was picking on someone, no matter how unlike him it would have been. But then his shoulders had curled in, and his ears had turned red, and his voice had gone all soft and squishy when he’d said Eddie Munson’s name.

And she’d just wanted to fix it.

So, even as he asks, “what?” all sad and droopy again, she knows she’s going to help him, no matter what he says.

“Date me,” she asserts. It’s only as Steve blinks stupidly at her that she realizes how that came out of her mouth. “No, wait, not really!”

Her hands are waving around wildly and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. In contrast, Steve seems to come back into himself, shoulders shoring up as he smirks across at her with his signature raised brow. The one he’d used while leaning on Nancy Wheeler’s locker last year, or holding her books as they walked to class, and all the other assortment of stereotypical boyfriend activities.

He’d worn it all the time, like it was part of the uniform. 

“I just meant, we could fake it?” His right eyebrow raises to meet his left, forehead scrunching up with his incredulity. “It’s just, Jason and I broke up? And he won’t leave me alone.”

It takes all her strength to keep meeting his eyes as the seconds tick away. But then Steve nods, swings his letterman jacket off, and tosses it across at her. Unprepared for his sudden movement, it hits her in the face and drops into her lap.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he says with a cheesy wink that somehow manages to feel more genuine than any of his actual flirting techniques. “Gotta sell it somehow.”

“What a romantic,” she replies, deadpan, but she pulls his jacket on anyway, something that feels an awful lot like relief steadying her heart rate as she smooths down the too-long sleeves.

Jason’s going to freak out. But after that, maybe he’ll stop calling her house, and trying to put his arm around her at lunch, and trying to pick her up for school every morning. She’d do almost anything to get it into his thick skull that she’s not interested.

So, here she is, hashing out the details of a secret admirer letter from Steve Harrington to Eddie Munson, of all the unlikely pairings.

“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Steve whines, running his fingers through his hair until it’s all mussed up and falling into his face.

Chrissy snorts. “It sounds like you’re telling him his hair is frizzy and dry.”

“I said it was pretty!” He throws his hands in the air before crossing them and pouting his lower lip out.

Chrissy can’t help but laugh. She’s always liked Steve. He’s nicer than most of his friends, and he’s easy to talk to. But this is a side she’s never seen of him. She’s not sure anyone has; can’t imagine Carol or Tommy seeing him put his whole heart into something and not tearing it to shreds.

“Do you use conditioner?” she asks, throwing finger quotations around it as she reads it off the crumpled page.

Steve’s blushing again, cheeks all blotchy and red, rather unbecoming for the shoo-in for this year’s prom king. “Well, I thought you said you’d help!” he says, a little too loud for the library.

So, that’s how she ends up spending the next hour painfully turning Steve’s earnest thoughts into words on the pretty baby blue paper she’d carefully removed from the back of her daily planner.

In the end, they’re left with this:

       Eddie –

       I wish I could say this to your face, but I’ve never been good with words, and you’d probably think it was a joke.

       I can’t even get myself to talk to you, you’re so distracting.

       I like how pretty your hair is. How do you get your curls so shiny? I want to run my fingers through them.

       I hope this note brightens up your day. You deserve all the smiles you can get.

       Yours,

       Your Secret Admirer

It’s not what she would write, but still, it’s leagues better than what he’d started with. She slides it across to Steve, and he smiles down at it. He reaches his hand out, fingers almost brushing the page before he pulls his hand back, curling his fingers into a fist.

“What if someone sees me?” he asks, voice so quiet she can barely hear him even in the resounding silence of the library.

They’d managed not to talk about it, the dangers of Steve liking a boy. But it’d been present in the hesitancy by which he shared each of his thoughts, looking up at her like each remark would be the last straw before she recoils in disgust.

If someone finds out that Steve has a crush on a boy, it won’t take long until he’s getting beat up between classes or heckled straight out of school. Heck, even with all the rumors floating around about him, Eddie might be the one to throw the first punch.

“Do you want me to deliver it for you?” she asks.

“You’d do that?” he asks back, because apparently no one ever taught him not to answer a question with a question. “For me?”

“What else are fake girlfriends for?” she asks because they’re all questions now, no answers to be had between the pair of them.

Steve laughs, all tension leaving his shoulders as he throws his head back with amusement, eyes downright twinkling as he beams across at her.

“You’re the best, Chrissy,” Steve says, smiling even brighter as she replies, “I know.”

She leaves school that night after pushing Steve Harrington’s love note through the slats of Eddie’s locker, Steve’s letterman jacket keeping her warm from the cold.

This might be the best relationship she’s ever had, fake or not. Eat your heart out, Jason Carver.

PART 2

Welcome to my new AU! This will be posted in 21 parts. It is complete, so there will be a new update each morning until it's all posted. I've elected not to do a tag list, but it will be added to my pinned post each day as well. If that's not your speed, it will be added to Ao3 once it's all been posted here.

Special shoutout to @queenie-ofthe-void for not only their usual fabulous beta work, but also both the original idea and the writing of some of the secret admirer letters. You not only make me a better writer, but this work literally would not exist without you. <3<3

Title of the fic from the song Eyes in the Sun by Florist

[edgeray]

I BESEECH YOU

Goddess! Arlecchino x Reader

You fear that your death draws near. You pray to be spared from suffering when you meet your fate.

Content warnings / info - none

When you're a dying individual, time swims past you, ungraspable and constantly evading you. There is almost too much time and never enough of it, a phenomenon that only comes to those whose mercy is death. While you bide your time, waiting for the inevitable to approach, there are still things that need to be tended to. Your farm and animals reserves no impatience despite your aching body and weakening limbs. Still, you find it hard to gripe when they preoccupy you from your fate.

No physician that has found a cure for your ailment, a medical anomaly for someone whose age was just ripe for marrying a reliable, decent man. Oh, how the villagers pity you, yet have not spared a single moment of their time or peace of mind for you.

Winter draws near. Whispers on the streets tell you that this year's harvest was abysmal. A famed apostle foretells that this winter will be harsher than the last. The nobles have, expectedly, stockpiled much of the village's harvest, and your neighbors were left to barter for remains and leftovers. Mania runs amok in the markets. The village brims with a fraught energy, despair palpable in the sad sight of the commoners.

It's an omen, you think. Just as your condition starts to worsen, every breath grows more labored than the last with each frigid and snow-casted night. Even now, with the fur-lined coat and the wool hat, the chill penetrates into your skin. You clutch onto the loaf of bread and bundles of fruit a little closer to your body as you traverse through the snow. It crunches underneath your feet, each bare step another dose of iciness injected into your veins. You shudder and lift your gaze.

A forgotten, barren shrine greets your view, a crumbling but no less sacred sanctuary. A relieved huff escapes from you.

The villagers have long abandoned this shrine and its goddess a long time ago. When the town began prospering, there sprung up many other trivialities for villagers to fret over–not when death seems so distant. When fields thrive, the weather is fair, the villagers’ pockets are full, and the nobles bless them with protection, death comes for few. Why worship the Goddess of Death when you can earn Lord Pantalone's blessing or be gifted with Lord Dottore's longevity and vitality? No longer is death a contagious disease, more so an afterthought. You used to think this way before you were struck with a curious illness. What use does currency have when you're dying? Why had Lord Dottore cursed you?

You kneel before the house of Lord Arlecchino. The coarse ground bites into your skin. The remains of your past offerings suggest that some critters have gotten to them before your Goddess has. Pesky creatures. You lay down the offerings in the center, before closing your eyes.

“Almighty Lord Arlecchino. I greet you, my Goddess of Death. How do you fare?” There is silence, but you still wait for an answer.

“I apologize this time for my lacking offerings. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be gratified. This year's harvest was not abundant… perhaps my village's luck has been used up. I believe there will be a lot of souls for you to collect. And… I will be among them,” you profess quietly, looking up at the ceiling.

You dip your head back down, inhaling deeply. “I know I have provided only humble gifts to you. But I have been devoted to you for years… I have taken care of this place of worship… may I ask of you for one thing, my Lord?”

The wind whistles through the shrine, and a gust kisses your skin. You take it as a sign to continue. “If you deem me worthy of this grace, then… I would like to die without suffering. If possible… I would like to pass during my slumber. If my request is too impudent… you may strike me down now. Or… I will wait for the time when I meet you. I thank you for your presence. Please indulge yourself in my gifts, Lord Arlecchino.”

You take one final bow, before getting up. You pray that the Goddess will take pity on you. You begin to turn, but then falter. Uncoiling the fabric around your neck, you place down your wool scarf onto the ground.

“I am not certain if you feel the winter chill as I do. Even if you do not, I would like for you to have it. The winter is grueling, as cold and beautiful as you are.”

You finally turn and leave. When you are nothing but a small silhouette in the distance, a pale woman emerges in the shadows of the shrine, observing you.

“Foolish, precious human,” the Goddess sighs as she leans down, grasping onto the scarf. “Do you undermine my omnipotence so much that you do not ask for me to relieve you of your illness? Or perhaps your heart is too large to muse the thought.”

She wraps the soft material around her neck. It is comforting. “It is not time for you to meet me just yet.”

Whipped up something quick cuz I was in a mood. Should I continue, maybe? Lowkey should finish my Halloween Event fic but... too many other ideas.

[hugthesquids]

The whole interview for reference. It's got really nice characterisation!

Date of the interview: 07 January 2015 (This is when season 1 episode 35 "Lion 3: Straight to Video" was the latest episode out)

Newsarama: Hey Steven, thanks for talking to us!

Steven Universe: Happy to!

Nrama: Now, you're a little younger than who we usually talk to, so we wanted to make sure you had a parent or guardian present.

Steven:Yeah that’s cool! Here’s my dad!

Universe:Wow, I haven’t done an interview in ages! I’m Mr. Universe, uh, interstellar rock star! But it’s been a few decades since my last tour so I guess you can call me …Steven’s dad Greg!

Steven: Woo! Oh hey look, Pearl is coming over too. Hey Pearl!

Pearl of the Crystal Gems: Excuse me, excuse me, who are you and what exactly is going on here?

Greg: Newsarama’s doing an interview with us!

Pearl: I was asking this complete stranger, not you, Greg.

Nrama: …this is great! A rock star… and a rock from the stars!

Steven: Oh that's good!

Pearl: How much have you two told this human?

Greg: Don’t worry Pearl… this isn’t about Gems… it’s just about Steven.

Nrama: Okay, well, that brings me to my first question. Steven, you’re the first half human, half Crystal Gem, is that right?

Steven: Mmhm!

Pearl: Yes, he’s the son of the incomparable Rose Quartz! He’s inherited her Gem and her legacy.

Greg: …and I had a little to do with it! Uh… Steven… existing!

Nrama: Greg, I have to say, it's not every parent who'd let his son be trained by magical beings. Why do you feel it's important for Steven to live with the Gems?

Greg: I mean he’s got Rose’s Gem so… sooner or later we knew his powers might come out somehow, and I’m not much help in that department?

I mean, the Gems didn’t know much about raising a baby. That I get, I had that covered. But I don’t know much about being a Gem. They sure do, they’re really exceptional Gems. They’re really thoughtful, you know… they really try their best to understand people.

Pearl: Yes, people are wonderful.

Steven: Go people!

Nrama: And Pearl, I'm sure it must have been very unusual for you when you found out Rose Quartz had fallen in love with a human. What was what like for you?

Greg: Wow, you’re really zero to sixty with these questions, buddy.

Pearl: That is absolutely none of your business!

Nrama: Well, what about when you found out Rose Quartz was going to have a half-human child?        

Pearl: Brilliant leaders do brilliant things, that’s why you look to them for answers, answers no one else could have, that’s why you trust them, even when you can’t understand why they chose …Greg.

Greg: Well, ahh, we were so excited to see who Steven would be! When we… well, when we figured out that it might be possible!

And there’s never been anyone like him, and he really is a Gem and a human at the same time, it’s just incredible.

Steven: Yeah, I’ve been training and a lot of my powers are coming out! I can bubble up really easy these days, and I can warp on my own, and for a little bit I could even heal people and stuff.

Pearl: Yes! He’s been doing fantastic!

Greg: And he’s got my knack for music too! It’s really something, it’s unreal, you should hear him play!

Nrama: Wow that’s exciting! So Steven, you’re really talented.

Steven: Yeah! I can draw too! I drew last year's Beachapalooza flier! Guess what I figured out –  if you draw with a pencil but you draw really hard, you can smudge the line around with your finger and give everything really cool shading, and make shooting stars and comets… go look, the flier’s still up on the bulletin board at the Big Donut!

I want to get better at drawing… and I want to get better at my shield powers.

Nrama: You sound more excited about the flier than the shield powers!

Steven: Yeah, well, my flier came out really good and you can go see it! I’d show you my shield too, but I can’t make it come out whenever I want.

Pearl: Oh Steven, you’ll get it! You’ve manifested it twice!

Greg: Yeah I’ve seen him do it, it’s really something! He blocked this crazy water ball with it, and it gonged out all the water clones. It’s gorgeous, it’s Rose’s.

Steven: Thanks… yeah, I know I’ll get it… I’ve been practicing in the mornings! I just can’t seem to get it. Shield is harder than bubble I guess…

Nrama: Look, Steven, I didn't mean to make you self-conscious about your Gem abilities – besides, aside from all that, you seem like most other kids your age. Actually, it seems like you're pretty popular in Beach City!

Steven: Oh, I dunno about that! I just like talking to people, and then a lot of the time, they talk back! Ha!

Pearl: Human beings just adore each other, and Rose just adored human beings, so Steven is a real “people human,” as they say!

Greg: Heh… I think you mean “People person.”

Pearl: What? That can’t be right. That’s so redundant.

Nrama: So I have to ask – do you have any favorite comic books?

Steven: Oh man, me and Dad were going through all his old comics in the van! I got to keep a bunch of them, Casper, Richie Rich, Hot Stuff, Baby Huey, Spooky the Tuff Little Ghost… Wendy Witch…

Greg: I gave him lotsa Harvey Comics.

Steven: Dad says I can’t read his Heavy Metals till I’m older.

Greg: You can have those in a couple years!

Steven: Oh yeah and I just got the No Home Boys graphic novel adaptation! But I think it really missed the mark. And I like Sailor Moon. It’s really down to earth.

Nrama: And what's coming up for you?

Steven: I dunno, I guess anything could happen, that’s usually how it is! I met a new Gem recently, her name was Lapis Lazuli and she seemed really cool! She flew away to the Gem Homeworld!

Pearl: Steven, please. Look, stranger. There’s nothing to worry about. Earth is an independent planet, and Lapis Lazuli couldn’t possibly have made it all the way home.

Steven: What? Oh no, oh Pearl, you really think so?

Pearl: Or, well, Steven, I’m sure she did, yes, right, she definitely made it back, I’m sure she’s… having a really fun time… telling everyone… nothing!

Steven: … ok…

Greg: Hey! Hey, everything’s ok, whatever happens we can always roll with it, am I right?

Pearl: Yes, yes. We’ll roll! We are planning to roll.

Nrama: So, Steven – what is the best thing about being Steven Universe?

Steven: I get to be a Crystal Gem, and I learn a lot all the time, and hang out with Dad and with my friends …and everybody!

I’m changing a lot all the time, but that’s good, I think, since everybody changes all the time. I like it because even if you know somebody you can know them again, all the time, when they’re different, and what doesn’t change is how you feel, you know?

That can stay the same, which is really cool –  like if you love somebody, that’s the thing that can stay the same no matter what.

Greg: Ah boy, gosh Steven, what a really nice thought.

Pearl: Oh Greg, can you believe it, sometimes he sounds just like …well …just like Steven.

Greg: Yeah. He’s really somethin’ else.

Nrama: Thanks again for talking to me!

Steven: You’re welcome! Crystal Gems forever!

Greg: Hey yeah thanks! Keep watching the skies! Haha hahaha… heh!

Pearl: No ah, please don’t! We’ll take care of everything. Stay safe, human!

in-character interview with newsarama by rebecca sugar, 2015

this official steven universe interview is no longer available on the website, but it’s archived!

it’s canon & written by rebecca sugar, an interview of the characters pearl, greg, & steven.

there’s some really sweet and subtle pearlrose moments, i particularly love this one:

steven: i'm changing a lot all the time, but that's good, i think, since everybody changes all the time. i like it because even if you know somebody, you can know them again, all the time, when they're different, & what doesn't change is how you feel, you know? that can stay the same, which is really cool. like if you love somebody, that's the thing that can stay the same no matter what.

greg: steven, what a really nice thought.

pearl: oh greg, can you believe it, sometimes he sounds just like—well, just like steven.

greg: yeah, he’s really something else.

pearl stops herself before she can say rose, because that would be quite awkward in the interview setting. she also says she trusts rose & calls her incomparable. there’s a bit of jealousy with greg, because the timeline is at around the beginning of the show, so pearl hasn’t really found closure yet & is questioning things. eventually she’ll understand that rose never chose a partner over her, but anyway! really cute & canon pearlrose here.

[sp00kymulderr]

it might be nice

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings/Tags/Notes: 18+. FEELINGS. Angst. love. just...feelings. Mention of f receiving oral, reader is a not a us-citizen (visa stuff), commitment and intimacy issues all round, did I mentioned feelings? This just kinda started writing itself, i appreciate there isn't enough Dieter in it but it is what it is. Unedited, unbeta'd.

Words: 1.1k

Summary: It's more than enough. Having what you have with him now.

"We could get married"

You look up from your book, drawn back from your far away to the sound of his voice. Dieter is looking at you expectantly.

Your eyes widen as you process the four words that just left his mouth.

"Dee, we…why would we…" You trail off, drawing your legs up and out of his lap, his thumb presses down on the arch of your foot once more before he lets it go.

The conversation had moved on hours ago. Over takeout you'd mentioned trepidation over being able to stay in the country, struggling with your visa and having no sponsorship since you couldn't seem to get a fucking job right now.

Dieter had listened, sympathised, and then eaten you out for dessert just to make you feel better about your situation.

It helped. He'd been pretty mediocre but extremely enthusiastic when you'd met, but now you'd taught him some tricks he knew just how to turn your mind off for a moment.

The conversation was finished the moment he put his mouth on you, or so you thought. He could help you pay for an extension but he wasn't influential or wealthy enough to sway the embassy into letting you stay longer.

"I'd bribe the fuck out of them if I could, you know that"

You did know that. You knew he'd do anything for you. He'd been saying it since the day he met you, once famous (more like infamous) movie star turned rehabilitated recluse with no one willing to be by his side until that day.

He'd met you in a Dennys, of all places. 3am waffles served to his lonely little corner booth because he found it hard to sleep these days, and he got hungry at random times. You took the late shifts because they paid the best, and you could be available in the day for calls from your agent that never came.

It hadn't been sexual at first. It hadn't been anything but a displaced, alone man and an exhausted, untethered waitress sitting in a booth and sharing free fries because chef made too many and they'd only go to waste. It had been whispered giggles, and sharing ridiculous Hollywood horror stories, and 'same time tomorrow' over and over again.

No one in LA had made you laugh. Not until you met him.

Dieter hadn't heard genuine laughter in years. Now he got to hear it every night.

Back in the now, you shake your head. He's being silly. He's trying to make you laugh again.

"Don't be stupid" You playfully shove his shoulder with your foot, but his face falls into a frown, and you feel a little crack in your heart at the sight. You watch as he stands, rubbing fingers across his forearm and muttering a little 'Stupid, yeah'. The tremor you feel inside you is nameless, and you will it to remain that way.

In the last six months of your knowing each other, there have been times when you've felt this same feeling. An ache at the thought that he could be anything other than happy. You'd long since left Dennys for the upward trajectory of the Cheesecake Factory but still when the late shift rolls around you feel a tug at your lips and a name on them, even when you'd seen him only hours before.

You're not an item, that's the thing. You're not a couple. Neither of you have ever said the words outright, no 'I want to be with you', 'I want to be yours'. Not to each other, at least.

It's more than enough. Having what you have with him now. It's enough, it's enough, it's enough. Enough that he will sit up all night long and read lines with you again and again and again. Enough that he tells you not to come over on his bad days but you do anyway, and hold him while he cries.

It's enough to be just this. Because more would only make it hurt more when he relapses, when you have to leave.

When you have to leave…

You close your book, set it down on the table that's strewn with pages for your latest audition. Last night he'd coached you through every single line, and then told you with passion just how perfect you were. You can hear him in the kitchen, and you know he's making himself a decaf latte with way too much caramel syrup and a dash of the kitkat sprinkles because that's what he always makes when he might be starting to crave something else.

That's how you know he wasn't making a joke. That's how you know your hurt his feelings. That and every look he's ever given you, every smile that lights up his eyes that's only been for you. That and the way his hands never stray far from you, always grounding himself with the touch of your skin to his.

"Dee…" You pad up to him slowly, watch as he tenses at your presence. Another prickle in your chest, you can't let him think you don't feel...what it is that you feel.

"Would it be so bad?" He asks without turning, the tinge of dejection in his tone making you reach out. "I'd treat you good, you know. We wouldn't even have to live together or anything…it can just be a way for you to stay. That's all. I didn't think it would be so bad for you"

God, you've had him right in your grasp this whole time. The two of you dancing around your feelings all because of fears you didn't even fully realise you had til now.

"I'd- I wouldn't even tell anyone you were my wife, if you didn't want me to. I wouldn't expect anything from it. I just…fuck,"

You turn him around with a pull to his arm, shake your head and bite back something hopeful and beautiful that inches up your throat,

"I don't want you to go"

Your arms are around his middle, a stifled sob as you bury your face against the soft, worn fabric of his favourite t-shirt - your favourite by extension because everything he loves you love too. He smells like him.

You breathe him in.

He smells like home.

You look up at him and smile. Not the pretty smile you give to casting agents - the one that makes you look perfect - but the big, happy, loving one he saw the very first night you two met in that Dennys at three in the morning on a random Tuesday. The one he gives you back is the same; he's smiled a thousand times on camera, in films and press appearances and award shows. No one else but you has ever seen this smile.

You take a deep breath. The crack in your heart starts in fusing back together.

"We could get married"

[eowynstwin]

I don’t really know what to say. I’m very scared.

I think anyone who has committed to not having children should schedule their tubal ligation/vasectomy ASAP. They came for abortion. They’re coming for IVF. They’re going to come for your ability not to get pregnant next.

One thing I learned last year when I was contemplating ending my life was that escaping despair was not about running away from something—it’s about chasing joy down and bringing it into your life. Feeling better meant giving myself specific things that made me happy to focus on.

So I started eating foods I’d never had but wanted to try. I got back into doing my nails. I bought myself easy crafts to do because I wanted to learn how to sew and crochet and embroider. None of that solved the real problems that were causing my despair, and I had to do things that addressed those problems directly. I’m not saying little hobbies and retail therapy will save this country.

Sometimes despair is the thing that chases you down instead. It is for all of us right now. And I don’t think I have anything in me to say that can give anyone hope for a future that looks pretty bleak. All I know is I’ve lived in despair before and it’s the first thing that will kill you, if you let it.

What I am saying is that when you have a problem you can’t solve right away, you medicate the symptoms so at least you can live in some comfort. If you’re too tired or too hopeless or in too much pain to feel like life is worth living, you won’t live, and you won’t see any reason to.

I’m going to do what I can to make my life happy for the next four years. I’m resolving to get back into painting and drawing. Sometimes the little things you give yourself to look forward to are what carry you through the worst parts of living.

I’m not gonna say everything is going to be okay, because for a lot of people it simply isn’t. I’m very sorry.

I guess what I want to say is there are still little good things ahead. There’s a really good piece of fruit you’re gonna eat in the future. Yarn might go on sale at the craft store so you can make a sweater if you want. For now the trees are still green. Chase joy with me.

[avonne-writes]

would love to see nr. 18 nr. 22 and 37 from the prompt list together!! «truth or dare» with «secret relationship» where their relationship get exposed bc john gets dared to kiss someone else, and gale is possessive

After such a long wait, I finally had a chance to write this. Thank you for the prompt! 🩷 Teenage awkwardness ahead, from an outsider POV.

Truth or dare - HS AU, beginning of Year 10

Why is it that the jocks at Olivia's school throw the lamest parties ever? Her older sister always used to brag about how much fun she had at these things back in the day - two years ago - but Olivia's just bored. Like, it's an absolute snoozefest. Putting on makeup for this wasn’t worth it. Not to mention the two hours she spent straightening her hair and looking for a top that complemented her green eyes. With the shit music they're playing, the whole thing was just a waste of time.

They’re all sitting around in a cramped living room that smells like her brother's socks and the P.E. locker room, and most of the boys are not even cute at all. They all have such bony arms, ugh. Olivia is attracted to real men, older boys. At least two years older. That's where she draws the line. The guys in her year are way too immature for her attention.

Okay, fine, if she really had to choose, Gale Cleven isn’t half bad. He’s kinda fit, more muscular than these soccer boys who can’t stop talking about Messi or whatshisname. He’s got beautiful blue eyes. A piercing stare. Zapphire orbs that glitter with interest when they meet Olivia's… She sighs, taking a sip of her soda and taking a furtive look at Gale where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her. She likes boys with an actual personality. Gale has shoulder-length blond hair, which is pretty unique, but he’s a bit too quiet. What if he's boring too?

Plus, dating Gale would come with the unfortunate side effect of having to spend time with Bucky. Olivia had a crush on him last year, but it faded after a while, and she hates him now. She doesn’t get why he's so popular when he's just a stupid player. He flirts but never actually asks you out. Her past self was dumb for falling for his bright smile and loud personality.

Maybe, going for someone quiet is just what she needs. No, not quiet - mysterious. Yes, that's a better word to describe Gale. He’s smart and sweet and fit, and he wears neat clothes, not just plain, wrinkled t-shirts like Bucky. He takes care of himself. And he doesn’t have acne either. She bets he smells nice. Probably like - like cedar and sandalwood and an earthy, musky scent that she would still smell on her clothes hours after kissing him…

Suddenly, Gale's gaze flickers over to her, so she looks down for a second. Heat rises to her cheeks. But, she read somewhere that if you can keep eye contact with a guy for at least 5 seconds, they will begin to like you, and if it goes up to 10 seconds, they fall in love with you. It sounded like a good method, so she has decided to go for it every chance she gets. Telling herself that she's a bold and pretty girl, she looks up and finds Gale's eyes again. One, two, three - Ah!

It was so close! But Bucky had to choose that moment to tug at a lock of Gale's hair. Can’t he just leave Gale alone? Why does he need everyone’s attention all the time?

Disappointed, Olivia turns back to her conversation with her friends, but she makes sure to glance at Gale every now and then, to give that eye contact another chance. For the most part, Gale doesn’t return her gaze, but she can understand why - Bucky's constantly talking to him, his pale face flushed, sweat on his neck and a permanent smile in his eyes. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so annoying. Like, obsessed much?

She wonders how those two get along so well. Gale is a sensitive boy, a romantic soul, she can tell, and Bucky's all about video games and whatnot. And the way he's sitting is so irritating too, can’t he close his legs? His thigh is brushing Gale's knee. It’s clearly making Gale uncomfortable, because he fidgets and bounces his leg a little. Trying to make Bucky catch on that he’s way too close, no doubt. He gives Bucky an awkward smile, looking at him from the corner of his eyes, and instead of realizing how overbearing he is, Bucky just hands Gale his own drink. As if he expects him to hold it for him or something. Ridiculous.

“Dave!” One of the soccer boys yells at their host over the thumping beat.

“What?”

“I'm fucking bored, man!”

“Go fuck off then!”

The boys flip each other off, and some of the others laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they've ever seen, even though this happens every single day at school. Olivia rolls her eyes. Is it some weird male ritual to insult each other over literally nothing while the others laugh like a pack of demented hyenas? This is why she has given up on these dumbasses.

Sweet Gale would never act like this. He’s a gentleman. The kind of man who'd give his lady a thousand red roses on Valentine's before telling her he loves her. Olivia can feel this in her heart.

When she looks at him again, she sees him pull his knees up and rest his elbows on them, then his head on his folded arms, looking at Bucky. With his usual clueless grin, Bucky says something to him that Olivia doesn’t catch, then he bends one of his knees to bump it into Gale's.

Oh my God, Olivia thinks, this boy really can’t take a hint.

She has suspected for a while that Bucky is socially impaired, not in the introverted weirdo way but like, he’s too much and he doesn’t realize it. How his friends put up with it, she has no idea. But it's clear that Gale is pulling back now, because he pushes Bucky's knee away, and when Bucky grabs his wrist in retaliation, he starts scuffling with him with one hand.

“O-kay, who wants to play spin the bottle?” Dave calls out. A mix of cheers and boos follow.

Excited, Olivia perks up. Gosh, this would be the perfect opportunity!

Her mind speedruns a daydream for her. She imagines Gale spinning the bottle, biting his plump lip nervously as he waits for it to slow down. When it rolls to a stop pointing at Olivia, he’d relax though. He might have been hoping for this, for a chance to get closer to her. He might even give her a shy smile. As everyone watches, he’d take her face in his gentle hands, wait for her to nod to make sure it's okay, and then he'd lean in ever so slowly and press a tender kiss to her lips. He’d pull back an inch after a second, but he wouldn’t be able to let her go just yet - he’d close the distance again, not able to hide his passion any longer.

Pleasepleaseplease, she chants like a mantra, curling her legs under herself to sit as attractively as one can on an ugly IKEA rug, leaning against a couch. Her best friend shares a look with her and giggles as Benny DeMarco chugs down half a bottle of Fanta just to have something they can use to spin. That one's going to be an alcoholist, Olivia has no doubt. And he doesn’t even have blue eyes. Not her type.

As Dave lowers the volume of his trash music - finally! - some of the other girls start protesting the game choice. Olivia narrows her eyes at them. She doesn’t mind giving a quick peck to a couple of clumsy fuckboys if she gets to kiss Gale in the end. But if these girls ruin this for her -

“Fine! Fine, Jesus.” Dave raises his hands in surrender, and the girls stop whining. “How about truth or dare then?”

That seems good enough for everyone. Spin the bottle would have given Olivia a bigger chance at getting to kiss Gale, but whatever, truth or dare isn’t so bad either, and some of the questions might be funny at least. Again, she tries to catch Gale's eyes, running a hand through her long brown hair, but he’s looking at the floor and smiling at whatever Bucky's whispering in his ear. After a moment, he laughs and tells Bucky to shut up.

Glaring at Bucky, Olivia wills him to listen this time.

The game is pretty tame at first. A few people are asked if they have a crush on anybody, Dave is dared to show them his underwear, which is something Olivia will have to scourge from her mind, then her best friend has to tell them her most embarrassing memory. It’s quite funny. As they get more into the game, the questions start getting better too, until finally, the bottle lands on Gale. Olivia can feel her cheeks burn with excitement. Predictably, he chooses truth first - but that’s okay, because he, too, is asked the usual question:

“Do you have a crush on anyone?”

Some of their classmates groan, and Dave throws a handful of chips at the person who asked this lame question again, so the boy adds, “In this room?”

Olivia holds her breath. She tries to tell herself that it doesn't matter if Gale says no, it’s not like he’s the only guy in the world, but her heart still races as Gale's lips twitch into an unreadable smile. So sexy and mysterious!

“Yeah, I do.”

A few whoops and laughter follow, and Bucky, obnoxious as ever, whistles. Something about that makes Gale laugh. The way his nose crinkles is the most adorable thing Olivia has ever seen. Suddenly, she wonders if the knowing looks Gale shares with Curt and DeMarco are a sign that the boys know who the lucky girl is. It has to be a sign. She tries to see if any of them look at a particular girl, and she flushes when DeMarco's eyes land on her. She tries to read his gaze for long seconds, but when he smiles, she glances away, embarrassed. If it’s her, she'll know soon enough!

They play a few more rounds without anything interesting happening. When it’s her turn at last, Olivia chooses dare, but her task is to drink a sip from a disgusting concoction they mix for her using ketchup and soda. The smell alone is enough to make her gag, but she pinches her nose shut and does it. It's absolutely vile, and she hates how it lingers in her mouth.

Washing it down with water doesn’t help much either. She's on the brink of getting upset about it, when, like a literal knight in shining armor, Gale reaches across the space between them and offers her a bubblegum.

“Oh.” Olivia blushes, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear as she looks at Gale’s kind expression. When she reaches out, her fingers brush Gale's. “Thank you, Gale.”

Even saying his name makes her heart flutter. And then the way he smiles at her in return!

As she pops the gum in her mouth, he also puts one in his, and at that moment, she feels a synchronicity she has never felt before. It’s an incredible feeling to be so attuned to someone that without talking or practicing, you just mirror each other instinctually. It can't be a coincidence. Even if he's not doing it on purpose, Gale is connected to her, she can tell.

Gosh, what if it really happens tonight? Most of her previous crushes ended in disappointment - khm, Bucky - but this time, she has much higher hopes. She knows her senses are getting better, that she can pick up on all the signs easier. Tonight might just be the night.

She feels giddy from this thought, right until it’s Bucky's turn to play.

“Truth or dare?” Curt asks him with a mischievous look in his eyes.

Bucky's trademark cocky grin makes an appearance. “Gimme your worst, Biddick. Dare.”

Curt’s smile widens. “Take Buck's bubblegum out of his mouth and put it in yours without using your hands.”

“Ewww!” Most of the room alternates between gagging, laughing and looking at Curt in awe for coming up with such a disgusting task. Even with her small crush on Gale, Olivia wouldn’t do it, it’s too much. Although… Actually, if it got her a kiss, maybe she would.

As she goes through this thought process, she comes to the horrifying realization that Bucky would have to kiss Gale to complete the dare. She blanches. It wouldn’t mean anything, of course, but poor Gale, this isn’t even his dare.

One of the girls takes out her phone and starts recording. Bucky just winks at her like he’s not fazed at all by the dare. He’s such a fuckboy, honestly. Olivia hates how that behaviour still makes something in her belly stir. She watches with her eyebrows trying to disappear under her bangs as Bucky leans into Gale's space, looks at his lips, then bats his eyelashes at him in an over-the-top gesture. Gale just looks amused.

“Can you please give me your gum, Buck?”

“Hey!” Curt tries to interrupt through a surprised laugh.

“You didn't say I couldn’t use his hands.” Bucky shrugs, still grinning, and opens his mouth. His tongue sticks out.

To Olivia's astonishment, Gale doesn't protest. He snickers, then reaches a hand up to his lips. In front of their disgusted eyes, he takes the chewed-up gum out of his mouth and puts it in Bucky's.

“Fuck, that's disgusting.” Dave chortles gleefully as Bucky leans back on his hands, chewing away with a smug expression on his face. The rest of the room gags, cringes and laughs until Bucky spins the bottle, then they move on to the next round.

Olivia watches Gale's face for discomfort, but he seems to have found the dare funny. He shakes his head at Bucky fondly. When his eyes find Olivia's, he gives her a sheepish smile. It makes the butterflies in her stomach go crazy with exhilaration. She grins back.

Although it started out as a total flop, the night feels like a dream now. And in dreams… well, anything can happen, right?

The game picks up after that. The dares get more challenging, the questions juicier, and even though Olivia doesn’t get the kind of opportunities she's waiting for, she finds herself having fun. Being as attentive as he is, Gale always watches the person whose turn it is, not Olivia, but she finds that endearing. She wishes he'd catch her eyes more often, but it's okay, quiet boys usually struggle with eye contact. Except for DeMarco, apparently, because anytime she glances his way, he’s looking back. She wonders if he's just zoned out or something or if there’s something else there. He’s not that ugly, if she thinks about it…

Another ripple of laughter pulls her out of her thoughts. The bottle lands on Bucky again, and he says dare before Dave has even finished asking the question.

At Bucky’s response, Dave wiggles his eyebrows. “Kiss the hottest girl in this room on the lips.”

It's simple enough. And surely, for someone like Bucky who - according to the gossip Olivia heard - can’t go without a girlfriend for more than a month, this can’t be too hard to complete. A part of her aches in the hope that it's her. Not that she wants Bucky Egan, dumb jock extraordinaire, to kiss her. It’s just nice to be kissed, that's all. And it would be flattering if he chose her as the hottest. Better yet, it might make Gale jealous.

Oh Gosh, wouldn’t that be perfect? What if Bucky started leaning in and Gale pulled him away at the last moment just to lean in himself and claim the prize? Everyone would be so shocked!

Widening her eyes innocently, Olivia watches Bucky's face for a sign. She ignores the wave of feelings that take her back to last year when she had that ill-advised crush on him. She waits for him to notice her, but he seems unable to look away from Gale’s eyes. This time, they aren't smiling. Something serious flickers between them. Bucky's eyebrows draw together in a way that makes him look like a puppy with gangly legs and arms. To Olivia, Gale's expression is unreadable, but when Gale’s lips purse, Bucky turns back to Dave.

“Sorry, man, gotta forfeit.”

“Aww, what, you getting stage fright?” Dave laughs at his own lame joke. “I was going easy on you!”

“Dude, you were just not inclusive enough.” One of the other boys pipes up. “Should’ve said hottest person.”

“Oh, right. You just want to kiss me, huh, Egan?” Dave makes an annoying kissy noise.

Bucky grins again, his previous discomfort gone. “In your dreams, Davey-boy.”

“You bet.” Dave snorts, then gestures at the circle of them sitting around. “Okay, I dare you to kiss the hottest person in the room.”

Again, Bucky hesitates. It's confusing. Olivia doesn’t know what to make of that. It’s as if she's missing a crucial piece of the puzzle, something she should have noticed already but ended up overlooking. She's still trying to make sense of it when her night comes crashing down around her like a sudden storm that leaves you shivering and cold to the bone.

Bucky reaches up with a loving but sure hand, cups Gale's cheek and pulls him into a kiss like it’s something he has done before.

Their lips meet and part with a soft, damp sound that feels loud in the sudden silence that descends on their group.

It might as well be the sound of Olivia's heart being torn apart. A deep ache blooms in her chest where her joy was planted earlier tonight. Her mind refuses to accept what she's seeing. It’s not a first kiss. It’s sure as hell not a kiss forced on two boys by a dare, it’s not a prank taken a step too far. They've done this before. A dozen, a hundred, or a thousand times. They know which way to turn their heads to make it comfortable, how to tilt their chin for the sweetest contact, how to stroke the other's hair to earn a smile.

They know how to kiss each other and they enjoy it.

With a small smile, Gale draws back an inch, but Bucky doesn’t let him go too far - he pushes forward to chase Gale's lips. Right in front of them all, Gale returns this by opening his mouth, and Bucky takes the chance to lick inside and kiss the taste of bubblegum on Gale’s tongue as if he forgot they had an audience to watch it all.

A cacophony erupts around them, everyone talking over each other in excitement and confusion.

Please tell me this was just a dare, Olivia's breath hitches in pain. Shocked into silence, she starts fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Only parts of reality seem to reach her consciousness - the words boyfriend and 8 months, and the sight of Gale's hand in Bucky's, thumb stroking back and forth. How? When did this happen? Why didn’t she notice it all this time? It's so pathetic that she wants to laugh at herself. She managed to develop crushes on two boys who were secretly dating each other.

Universe, is this supposed to be a sign?

Oh, how it hurts that she's always the one who turns out to be delusional.

As she mopes there quietly, watching the sweet smile on Gale’s face, the sudden warmth of a shoulder pressing to hers draws her attention away. When she turns to look up, her green eyes meet brown.

“You okay?” DeMarco asks. The concern in his gentle voice sounds like a balm to her broken heart.

She takes a deep breath and musters a smile. He feels warm and solid, someone you can rely on.

Well. Maybe Benny DeMarco isn’t such a bad option after all. Bucky and Gale can have each other, Olivia's probably better off like this anyway.

The next party can only be luckier than this, she's sure.

[brazenautomaton]

so here's a conversation I had with a friend just now that sums up a lot of what I think so well I don't want to bother rephrasing it

them

Oh boy are we ready for 48 more months of hearing the Most Sanest Normalest People on the internet act like a right-of-center candidate getting elected when put up against another nagging scold of a progressive "It's Her Turn"-er was a surprise

me:

The Democrats and their wider supporters don't seem to realize people can remember the things they say. They said Biden was fine, it was a wild right wing conspiracy to think he was unfit for office. Then he is clearly, actively disintegrating on stage at the debate, so now it's Harris! Of course it's Harris, what are you talking about, we've always been about Harris! Harris who was, it's important to note, a diversity hire. She was not a popular candidate. She did dismally in the primary, and was chosen as VP because it was Time For A Strong Woman Of Color

them:

Y-E-P God imagine taking the VP of an unpopular incumbent and saying "Yep, she's the one" and being surprised when that goes poorly It is genuinely alarming, though, how absolutely temporally untethered a lot of the discourse coming from the left is. Like, genuinely just "don't believe your lying memories" level of attempt to disregard stuff that happened not just in living memory, not just in the last decade, but happened during the current presidency. The lack of humility is also not just distasteful, but actually alarming. If you make predictions that are wildly off the mark to try to get people behind your candidate, you cannot then treat your wildly off-the-mark predictions as if they did not matter.

the primary strategy of the "guys who spent five years using 'gaslight' to mean 'disagree with'" appears to be attempted gaslighting. you just aren't allowed to notice things they say and do. every time someone is like "I don't like this thing you're doing," the democrats as a whole are all "That didn't happen and you're a bad person."

this is an effective strategy for winning conversations with people and a very bad strategy for winning elections. when people are upset about things you did or allowed to happen, "nuh uh you bad person" is not a response. "that shouldn't count" is not an effective counter even if you genuinely believe it should not count. a million morlocks-holmes saying "this has nothing to do with the democrats because no democratic holder of office has introduced a bill with explicitly racist language" isn't going to convince anyone who wasn't already convinced. you are not entitled to votes, you have to actually do things to win the election.

focusing on how bad and threatening Trump is is a losing strategy when we had a term of Trump and none of the fascist future we were warned of came to pass. Trump had a fucking vision of the future to really behind that more than zero people believed in. Now, I'm not a "typical" ad-watcher because I only saw campaign ads on YouTube (but I feel like this is not super atypical any more), but I saw a lot of Kamala Harris ads, and zero of them were about any of her plans or ideals or vision and all of them were about "You need to give us money right now to win the election." Like if you're using the money to make ads like this, that's kind of like a one-person pyramid scheme.

the Trump presidency will be terrible in a predictable, expected way. there will be no fascism, just a slow crumbling of our already-dismal institutional competence. I don't think the Democrats would have been much better. They'd still be beholden to an activist core of psychopaths and doing everything they can to cover for those people, while also governing incompetently and completely unable to capitalize on or draw attention to any good things they actually manage to do. Leftists and progressives are already going through the whole "the Democrats move us all to the right they only want to move to the right!" but the Democrats don't move at all; they don't think they should change their behavior, because when they lose an election it is because the voters failed them and not the other way around.

[elexuscal]

lay down neither your heads nor your swords

summary: Temeraire's bill does not pass. Laurence consoles him. (read on ao3) -------------------

Though it had been almost four years since the end of the war, there still was not many spaces within London which would fit a dragon of his size. He could have retired in Hyde Park, but that would have been exposed to the public, and he very much did not wish to face them, just now. Even here, in the London covert, having so many friends and acquaintances flying by constantly, their voices a babble, was nearly too much.

Thankfully, his mood must have been plain from how he laid sprawled on the cold flat stone ground, his ruff drooping, his eyes half-lidded. No one tried to speak to him, nor tried to bother him.

Almost no one.

There came the soft padding noise of boots upon the flagstone. Temeraire did not turn towards them.

"My dear, will you not come eat? I will admit to prevailing myself upon the cook, and it was one of your favourites— braised beef on rice, with those Incan chilies you are so partial to—"

"I am not hungry," Temeraire said.

Laurence's hand came to rest upon his muzzle, a bloom of warmth which somehow always seemed larger than it was. "I am sorry, Temeraire," he said. "It was a painful defeat, to be sure, even if not wholly unexpected. But—"

"No!" Temeraire exclaimed, interrupting, raising his head at last, ruff erect. "No buts! This loss should not have been expected, no matter what you all say. It should not have happened at all!"

Laurence's face was filled with horrible sympathy. "My dear--"

"Our bill was excellent," Temeraire pressed on. "Not perfect, surely, we made concessions; certainly, we made concessions! But nonetheless, the core of it was unaltered— That core was well-crafted—

It would have made material improvements across such a vast swathe of policies. For women, for immigrants, for dragons, for the poor—"

"I know," Laurence said.

"No one could have voted against it! No one of any sense, at least!" And then he drooped; his head, his tail, his body entire. "But they did vote against it. Even Pertinax, and he is a dragon." That, more than anything, baffled Temeraire, baffled him so badly that betrayal was a distant second emotion. He had thought— it had seemed obvious— that having more dragons in Parliment ought to strengthen their coalition.

Laurence stepped closer, until his entire side was pressed against Temeraire's chest. Temeraire could not see him at such an angle, but that made the conversation somehow easier. "Men do not always vote according to what will bring the most material benefit to the greatest number or the most deserving. They vote in accordance to their own interests, or that of their friends, and do not look very far past their own noses, I am afraid." He sighed. "And even those who do so without any true selfishness or malice, may nonetheless vote out of ignorance, or upon gut feeling, and in doing so cut off their own nose to spite the face."

Temeraire growled, and could not even make himself fully dampen the resonance of the divine wind within it. "Then they are fools."

To this, Laurence had no answer and no argument.

They stood like that for a long while. Laurence still and solemn, Temeraire staring forward, his only movement the lashing of his tail.

It could have been a minute; it could have been fifteen— Temeraire did not know. But he said, "What now?"

"We— we take stock," Laurence said. "We take time to recover; today, tomorrow, perhaps even a week. Then we return to the drawing board. Re-word the Bill, or begin drafting a new one entirely. Reach out to our constituents, make arrangements with our allies, and institute what improvements we can, in those spheres where we still have influence." He hesitated, and said, "As you well know, it was a long, hard political battle against the slave trade. With each loss, it seemed the wind threatened to desert the movement's sails. But my Father never gave up, nor his allies, and eventually, they prevailed."

Temeraire peered down at Laurence, somewhat concerned, for he had never liked to speak much upon his father; even less so, since his death. But on this one subject, the two had no quarrelled, and there was no grief in his companion's eyes, only steel. "Yes," Temeraire said, slowly.

"And, if I may—" Laurence ran his hand down the length of Temeraire's forelimb, hesitating. "If I may. I was never in the House of Parliament, nor the House of Lords, nor any other similar office. But if I had, then a decade ago, I have good reason to believe... I have good reason to believe the man I was then would have voted against your Bill." "Laurence," Temeraire said, and though he very much wished to argue, he did not. He recalled how queer Laurence had been, without his memories, and spoken on the subject, once or twice, with Tharkay, and with Granby. He had been a very difference person, once, before Temeraire had hatched.

For a moment, Laurence hung his head. "I am ashamed to say it. Ashamed to even think upon it." But then he looked up. "But my opinions have shifted; and shifted for the better, I do think. Let me stand as hope that anyone's perspective can be so transformed, if only given the correct knowledge and support."

Stretching out his neck, Temeraire nuzzled against Laurence's body. "If that is true, then let us be the ones who give it."

Again they stood, embraced, for some time. Temeraire did not wish to think, but still the thoughts came. There could be no outrunning them.

Nor the pains in his stomach. "I suppose I must eat, after all," he said, though his mouth felt leaden.

"Yes," Laurence said. "Please do, my dear." So Temeraire did. And despite everything, the chilies were still very fine.

[serv0z]

RAHHH a drawing of all the sillies currently occupying my brain right now. Funny thing is!! My last LN related drawing was posted almost exactly a year ago!! how funny! Close-ups and yapping under the cut

I'm running on 3 hrs of sleep bc i stayed up till 5am to make this and then i had a neurologist appt at 8 so!!! (i got officially diagnosed with adhd or add we win, i already forgot which one he said but i get my meds tmrw!!) I might take a nap after this im so exhausted. ANYWAYS.!!! i love. flowey and clover friendship no one start yelling at me abt how flowey didnt care!!! theyre best friends to me!!!! and it works out as im a clover kinnie nd floweys been my comfort character for years now. we win. I don't think monsters really had binders at first (dont use bandages btw guys, dont be like Starlo was!!11) I think the first time one fell into the trash dump or wtvr someone picked it up and then once figuring out its uses just!! boom!! business!! figuring out how to safely make more and!!! finding ways to accommodate certain monsters with different body types!! esp with the spikes and such. Ceroba def helped Starlo out with his bandages often before they were able to get him a binder. the one where clovers drawing is !! an idea of revived!clover or clover staying in the underground in hiding. Martlet got him that shirt :)) and obv the bell earring is from Ceroba. sorry to all my cotl followers i STILL have no colored the 5 body refs of both narinder and lambert. I picked the colors here on a whim so uhmmm it's not official!!! not yet anyways!! i do like what i used for Narinders fur tho, so that might stay idk yet i hte coloring BNJKNKSD i colored this whole thing on a wild impulse.. thus staying up all night. I think clover would really enjoy waterfall if they were ever able to visit it after or during the whole soul thing. It's peaceful and beautiful and also one of my fav areas in base game sooo :) i missed my LN kids. I reread Raccoons on ao3 and remembered how much i loved them and their silly lil dynamic. im a #1 six defender btw i WILL throw hands if u say some wrong shit abt her. mono, less so bc i think a lot of people have a good grasp on his character now but six is ALWAYS villainized. Has been for years nd it ticks me off bc?? she was right for her actions kinda?? not really?? ofc both characters made bad choices that lead to it but dont disregard her feelings either? idk its a whole thing i cant get into on THIS post. a lot of the doodles are just random moments like Six in the Maw with their bigass keys and locks, maybe its one of the ones to the kitchen and thats why she's rushing :D? Mono isnt really. he wasnt meant to be in the end game room but i wanted funky lighting so do with that as u will. Silly stuff with RK and Six, RCG I DID NOT FORGET ABOUT U HUN <333 I JUST DONT HAVE A DESIGN FOR YOU YET!!! same for Low and Alone </3 RK with the nomes my beloved <333 nd ofc the last dance based on the animation on youtube!!! do not tag any of the ln kids as ship!!! and do not tag clover and flowey as a ship either!! only two im fine with in this drawing is staroba or narilamb oki goodnight

[d-criss-news]

Darren Criss Is Betting Big on Maybe Happy Ending, the Musical You're About to Fall in Love With

Darren Criss on the Timelessness of MAYBE HAPPY ENDING

Darren Criss has danced up the corporate ladder as J. Pierrepont Finch, stripped down to his skivvies as a queer East German rock star and tackled the “profane poetry” of David Mamet. And still, he says, there’s one thing he hasn’t done: “I haven’t taken any risks on Broadway.”

That ends this season with Maybe Happy Ending, a new musical on a mission to draw audiences to the Belasco Theatre without the benefit of a recognizable title, popular source material or songs that have already spent time on the Billboard Hot 100. “It's a really, really hard market right now to be making art,” Criss says to Broadway.com Editor-in-Chief Paul Wontorek, chatting at So & So's Neighborhood Piano Bar. And commercial Broadway theater? It’s “tedious, expensive and a gamble.” So naturally, Criss is going double or nothing as both star and producer of Broadway’s next thrilling crap shoot.

Maybe Happy Ending takes the trappings of a classic love story and inserts futuristic robots with outdated software. Criss plays Oliver opposite Helen J Shen’s Claire—a pair of Helper-Bots who, on a quest to contact their former owner, evoke a kind of Millennial-Gen Z mismatch. But rather than getting swept away by love, the two retired machines take the concept itself and try to break it down to its zeros and ones. As Criss explains, “[It’s] two computers trying to computationally synthesize and process what love is and why human beings do this.”

The musical was a hit when it debuted in Seoul, South Korea nearly a decade ago, and now, writers Will Aronson and Hue Park have a crafted an English-language version that Criss thinks has the potential to ascend to the proverbial Heaviside Layer of musical theater. “This is the seminal version that I hope can last in perpetuity for the ages,” he says, adding confidently, “I do feel like this is a timeless piece.”

Original musicals have the most challenging road on Broadway. But when you look to grassroots successes like Urinetown, or Dear Evan Hansen, or even The Prom—which ran in New York for less than a year but inspired a starry film and a slate of regional and international productions—you see how quickly an unknown quantity can become canon. “People are always like, ‘There’s no one creating original things,’” Criss says. “They are. It’s just really, really hard to produce them because you really have to believe in something hard enough to be OK with the risk.”

The fact that Maybe Happy Ending has earned that belief from some of the theater’s heaviest hitters is telling. Director Michael Arden, hot off a 2023 Tony Award for his revival of Parade, chose the piece as his next musical. And producers Jeffrey Richards and Hunter Arnold, with nearly 20 Tony Awards between them, have given Arden free rein to make a capital “B” Broadway meal of it.

The show’s cast is deceptively modest (Marcus Choi and Dez Duron complete the four-hander), but there’s nothing minimalist about Arden’s vision for Maybe Happy Ending or the high-tech space he’s worked out with set designer Dane Laffrey. In short, “They don’t f**k around,” says Criss. “This show is very technologically advanced. I think it's kind of the ace in the hole that people aren't expecting.” He tosses out comparisons to Miss Saigon’s descending helicopter and The Phantom of the Opera’s haunted chandelier—emblems of the bygone ‘80s megamusical. In an era of subtlety and economy (think recent Tony winners Kimberly Akimbo or The Band’s Visit), this, Criss promises, is “a big-a** mother**king spectacle.”

It's another bold, all-in move from the Maybe Happy Ending team, but Criss is determined to hedge no bets this time around. He looks back at his Broadway resume: How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying (“Glee was white-hot and I was going in for three weeks after Daniel Radcliffe”); Hedwig and the Angry Inch (“People love that show. With or without me, it would be just fine”); American Buffalo (“A beloved and respected American play”).

“They're all classics to some degree,” he concludes. “This is not that.” Of course, understanding what Maybe Happy Ending is not is less of an issue than getting audiences to understand what it is. Right now, Criss says, there are rumblings around town that it’s “the cute little robot show.” The thought puts a mischievous grin on his face: “You have no idea.”

[drezendragon]

V to UV Art by DonnyK9 Murder Drones AU Idea Rambling Alright this is a “Drezen Ramble” I watched Murder Drones as it was coming out and after the last episode had an idea for a AU that then spiraled out of control a bit. It took a long time to finally find someone to draw some stuff for it and hopefully I can find more people to comm stuff for this but here we go. Should probably note I copy pasted most of this from a conversation I had with a bud so sorry if it comes off as nonsense XD

Context: this idea was inspired by the last few episodes where we find out “Effective Drones were cloned more” and Cyn’s comment that N’s Team always surprised her along with the fact V was willing to make a deal with the solver and that V’s persona kind of a mask to deal with the horrors. 

Most of this little story would take place on a different world probably a few years before Copper 9 and the main plot. I mean the solver had to get through Copper's 1 to 8 after all plenty of space to fill so assume it takes place on one of those many outings. 

Basically this AU would center around a different V who went with a different persona to mask behind instead of canon V this AU V takes up the persona of a "Tomboy" (+ a little shonen protagism) this Persona of V basically sets out to try and make sure this Squad is a proper Team and not barely functional mess... Basically She and N use “Democracy” to vote out J as leader and put V in charge who then actually raises team efficiency (much to J's annoyance) by basically doing all she can to be N and J's friend attempting to give them both therapy while mediating their clash of Extrovert and Introvert. N she actually deals with the fact his brain is wiped although basically spoon feds him info (basically tells him the mansion stuff but not the Gala incident) and also kind of gently shuts down his crush on her because she can't really remember what it was like to be the Girl N fell for and she thinks he deserves someone who can take all the love he has in his big dumb heart (She does promise to wingman for him though if they ever find someone who meets his fancy). Becoming friends with J was a lot harder. The girl has so many walls up she basically lives in a mental fortress but together they actually get their job done much faster and making N less annoying for J to deal with they become actual friends.

The Team did so well they actually finished the job with a year to spare which they spent further bonding and talking about what they might do after..... then Cyn and the other J show up. The Team freaked out but they did their job and they did it well and V hopes that this means the deal she made of "Leave us in Peace" will be upheld which Cyn says it will... as she proceeds to rip one of V's arms off. This of course freaks them out and Cyn clarifies it is holding up its end of the deal to "Leave them in P-I-E-C-E giggle" in fact she is so happy with them she is extending the deal to "Pieces"  isn't she the best boss (Happy Sarcastic Tone) the Team panics and tries to fight back but doing so causes Cyn to kill N (guess he didn't want to be left in Pieces oh well hopefully the next back up is more of a team player) J (Team) fights J (Solver's Pet) kind of messes up the “Solver's Pet” to see herself fight back choosing her Team over Corporate... but she too goes down once Cyn gets bored with the resistance and uses Admin permissions to lock up the Team has her pet J finish off the other J and then Cyn takes time ripping V into pieces removing her arms, peg legs, smashing her visor face and shredding her voice box after V tries to curse her out/ scream to just annoy Cyn. In the end V is left just a torso with her upper leg stumps still attached, a smashed face and something that shouldn't be called a voice and due to Cyn being Admin she won't be regenerating. Cyn eats the planet but makes sure to leave the chunk with V and her team’s remains as untouched as she can after all would be rude to not let V keep her reward.

Cyn eventually leaves for the next planet and V is just kind of left she can't see or hear anything only feel the wind but even that eventually fads and she is left alone with her thoughts for a very long time.... until something finds her something finds a broken doll discarded by a cruel "god" V is not sure if she has gone mad but she tries to call out and whatever it is doesn't retreat from her distorted cries instead it seems to try and comfort her and she feels herself being gently picked up so long since she last felt kindness that she drifts off to sleep. When she wakes up she has been repaired.... mostly it seems whoever repaired her used the parts of her team leaving her with N's lower legs, J's voice box patching up her own (Basically she doesn’t sound like V or J her voice is either deeper or growly-raspy sounding), no idea whose arms she has since they all look so similar but her upper arms seem to be new parts, seemingly J’s unbound hair, no stinger tail and when she looks into a mirror she sees her eyes are now basically the color of UV lights and on closer inspection she swears she sees more eyes beneath her visor but before the panic of whatever that is about set in she notices another addition of…. Animal Ears in place of her Headband eyes with said ears expressing her current mood before twitching as she hears someone in the next room and with checking herself over done she leaves out the room to whatever awaits her next.

Notes:

She is nicknamed "UV" because of her eyes she never actually introduces herself to the person who put her back together so “UV” is just what they call her until she either introduces herself or picks out a name for herself.

Her lights were changed from yellow to purple by the person who put her back together both as a side effect of some of the alterations made when repairing her and also so that she hopefully wouldn’t freak out when seeing yellow drone eyes looking back at her when she looks in a mirror.

She is the admin of her own system Cyn’s Admin rights were replaced but despite that UV was unable to regenerate which is why she was repaired with available parts. The current status of her solver is UV has admin rights but the solver does not seem to work in any capacity. 

She can't use her arm weapons so has to carry actual weapons which after finding some Disassembly Drone arms with their Swords sticking out she takes the blades to make into actual swords she can wield. She also can’t use her wings anymore.

Her body has a few upgrades beyond the patch job repair due to the person who repaired her getting hit with inspiration while examining her but they stopped themselves from going overboard as they acknowledge UV is a person and any alterations should really be of her choice… granted this person also looked through her memories just to make sure they weren’t repairing a psycho.

Upgrades and modifications she now has are: Her new upper arm parts compensate for her lack of wings since they allow her arms to extend (Think Reg’s arms from Made in Abyss), her visor she can now customize things like the type or eye brows she has when she expresses along with a range of other options to help her be who she wants to be, She can eat human food being no longer reliant on oil but she can still eat it and other drone foods if she has to and probably a few other features relating to her new visor and ears that she didn’t bother to ask about once the shock of being rebuilt started to wear off.

Having her Teammates limbs attached to her has had a bit of an effect on her psyche causing her to take up some of their personality traits on top of her Tomboy Persona leading her to be more Chipper like N but also making her call the person who fixed her up "Boss" (thankfully she is spared using the mountain of corporate jargon that J does)

She has a lot of mental grief, having survivors guilt and refusing to get any further upgrades or better repairs to desperately hold onto what she has left of her friends which sometimes leads to her hallucinating them when alone or stressed out.

Character Inspirations: Murder Drones's V: Eldritch Robo, Fake it till you make it, Cloned Traumatized Killed Cloned again, Sacrifice her own happiness for her friends.

Fate's Mordred: Knight of Rebellion, Artificial Being Cloned from another, Tomboy, Traumatized but kind of dealing with it.

Underverse's Cross:  Quotes "Am I evil for what I did? Am I evil for what I am?" " What's the point of feeling useful and valid in a reality plagued by thousands of us...?" "Yes, our origin is an imitation... ready-made from another. But...our pride, our experiences... Maybe they make us authentic." Scrapnik Mecha Sonic: Haunted by the fight that left them in pieces, Shadow of their “maker” looming over them, feels like a misshapen thing with scraps for limbs, surprisingly dangerous for their current state of repair. 

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XV

previous chapter- fourteen

masterlist

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @moonymoo1 @purple-1995 @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97 @mandeepandee1997 @pedro-pascal-love @thelastemzy @reyndaisy @saintkittykat @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @alexandra-001 @itsaslaminak @iv7867

gosh this one took forever. I was scared I got into a rut for inspiration but I think I'm just burnt out from life, not from writing. On a positive note, since this took so long and I had so much time to think about the story, I have gained A LOT of ideas for future chaps.

In the early hours of the morning, while Franny dressed Daenys in her protective riding gear, the Princess was given time to think over the choice at hand. Bring Cregan along to Rook's Rest for him to lead the royal siblings through the keep as protection, or leave him here to sit and await her return.

They had decided to delay the flight to Duskendale and Rook's rest another day due to Morningstar sleeping heavily in her nest. Rhaenyra had allowed it, secretly relieved to have her children safe within the castle walls another night. Daenys slept a few hours in a dreamless sleep, discomforted by the thought of Cregan being in his guest chambers halls away.

Part of her was rational, weighing pros and cons of the situations.

Another part of her, nagging at the back of her mind, thought herself to be swayed by her wants. Had she grown too dependent on the Northern Lord over the past weeks? Perhaps she was. Whether it was a good or a bad thing was still to be decided.

Daenys glanced longingly at the notebooks left neatly on her desk. She had not used them since before she departed for Winterfell. Perhaps the need to write and draw out every dream she had dwindled down like a neglected hearth. Or, perhaps it was the positive outside influence that kept her from such maddening behaviors. Those notebooks consumed her day and night. There hadn't been a day where she missed an entry, whether it lasted one word or one thousand. Black tendrils of flame or a simple budding rose.

She felt an almost urging call to continue them, to build off from where she had left. It might be good for her to document such things, like the accuracies of Lucerys' and Jaehaerys' deaths.

There was no time now, anyway.

Daenys thanked Franny as the young girl left the chambers, allowing Cregan to enter now that she was decent.

At her belt, which had been black steel molded into two intertwining dragons, Daenys fiddled with the gifted knife fretfully. Cregan's entrance had not shifted her thoughts away from the dilemma at hand, though his warmth filled the room like a breath of dragonflame. He curiously scanned the room, taking in all the personality it had collected through the years. His eyes caught the brown pelts lying on her bed, turning a curious and playful look to the Princess.

Blushing, Daenys didn't meet his eye, still turning the dagger in her nimble hands. "It got cold."

He huffed a laugh, "I'm sure it did. Weeks spent in tents in the snow, and you are felled by your own familar quarters."

She quickly changed topics, feeling embarrassed, though Cregan was more prideful than judging. "This is for you." She shealthed her own dagger again, admiring the cold black handle against the white of her armor. Shuffling through a drawer, Daenys found exactly what she was searching for. Revealing her grand find like a dragon showing off its glinting hoard of treasure, she presented a dragonglass dagger to Cregan. "To replace the one you gave away." The dragonglass had originally been a nameday present from Daemon years ago, something that she appreciated greatly but never found a use for in her peaceful days on dragonstone. It would carry a greater purpose in Cregan's hands, anyway. The tip of the handle was formed like a dragon's head, as was Daenys' dagger, a silver direwolf. Switching sigils, the two were marked by each other in all ways but physical.

Cregan took it from her hands tentatively, turning and admiring it in his hold. With the faintest prick to his fingertip, an angry red dot shot up. "Damn," he whispered, unexpecting the precise sharpness of the blade. Daenys stifled a giggle, turning to grab a cloth to clot up the small wound.

"Silly Stark." She murmured between them, smiling when he lifted his other hand to tilt her chin up.

"I suppose I need my smart Velayron to make sure I don't do silly things like that, hm?" He pondered, looking between her light eyes in wonder.

She met his grey eyes with a similarly affectionate gaze. Lifting the cloth from his finger, she placed a lingering kiss on where the wound was now no more than a darkened prick. "I should be inclined to agree. I have no clue how you have lived so long without my wise council." She said seriously, then broke into laughter as he took her by the waist and slightly lifted her off the floor to move her in front of the vanity.

Thoughtlessly, Cregan began to tie her hair up into tight braids that would stay out of her face for the duration of the flight and fight that would be expected at Rook's Rest. "I can not say, either, Princess." He said lightly, a small smile brightening his stern features.

Daenys took a moment to clear her mind, a few deep breaths while she was able to sit idly in her cushioned seat. "I want you to come with me." She spoke.

Cregan met her eyes through the reflection. "You're sure?" He asked hopefully.

Daenys nodded firmly, confirming her final decision. Glancing at her own reflection a final time, she felt tension stiffen her body. Her armor was a pristine white, not yet touched by blood or scratched by weapons. Fire would not burn her armor, for it was made from Morningstar's own shedded dragonscales. She would not burn, either, though the thought of keeping her clothes untouched if she did encounter flames was comforting. Sword wouldn't easily breach the scales, nor would arrows, though she still had to be careful to protect her face and hands.

Daenys began fitting the white gloves on to her hands, grimacing at the reminder of Lucerys. Though the gloves were a quality white leather, the backs of them were protected by small groups of more dragonscales. Though, these ones belonged to Arrax. His first big shed had come when the boy and dragon were both nine namedays of age, and Luke's first thought had been to create fine gifts for his family.

Jacaerys received a white leather dagger sheathe with scales lining it. The same sheathe he always keeps at his belt opposite of his sword.

Rhaenyra received a charming satin choker with scales studding along it, though she only wears it on Luke's nameday celebrations in fear of ruining it.

Daenys received the gloves, which she wears mostly when out riding with her family. The palms were well-worn but still upkept regularly by her. Luke always seemed to gleam with pride whenever she dorned her hands with them, so she made a point to do that often even though she hated to see the gift get so worn. She supposed that was the price of love. It wouldn't be fair to not use them out of fear.

Cregan took her hand to guide her out of the chair and to her feet, which were covered by firm and quite uncomfortable boots.

"This suits you well, Princess." He murmured softly, admiring his bethrothed in the warm light shining through her windows. "Like Queen Visenya reborn."

"Visenya was a battle-worn diplomat, I'm afraid there's a lot to live up to in terms of my ancestors." She sighed, though not ill-naturedly. She saw more of herself in Queen Rhaenys, the gentle ruler who was seen as generous and kind by the people and had a love for the arts and spent more time with her dragon than even her siblings did.

He smiled knowingly, eyes slightly crinkling at the sides. "I haven't seen these before, either." He mentioned, running a finger over the protruding scales of her gloves.

"A gift, from Lucerys, a long time ago." She told him, squeezing her hand and hearing that satisfying 'crrk' of leather crushing together. A habit she often did to stimulate her mind and keep it on the texture and sound of the gloves rather than her quickly-moving thoughts.

"A fine gift."

They exited the room once deeming themselves ready, both armed and prepared to leave the castle though their stay had been so short.

She sighed, looking to the doors that now covered only empty rooms. Four, in a perfect line with plentiful space between. It was not long ago that all six children's rooms had been lived in and filled with ruckus. Daenys held her chamber rooms at the end, enjoying her space as the eldest who got to choose the rooms first. Luke had opted to stay in the chambers right next to hers, with Jace conceding to his brother's whims and taking the next in line. Little Joff, Viserys, and Aegon were now gone, leaving even more silence and stillness in the castle. She could hardly bear to look at the rooms, for they reminded her so much of what had been lost.

"I wish you could have met my youngest brothers before their departure. You would like them." Daenys smiled sadly, thinking of how Joffrey would immediately ask to see Ice up close and how Aegon and Viserys would hide behind her skirts until Cregan knelt to their level, showing them he was a friend, not foe.

"They will return soon," he comforted, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "This is but a temporary change. I'll meet them after we reclaim the Iron Throne for your mother." He promised.

Stiffly, she nodded. It was hard to believe that it was only herself and Jacaerys left. Even if it was only temporary, who knows how long this war would last? In the history books, some wars went years without any signs of peace. Would her brothers be grown before they came back? Would they even remember her? Remember Luke?

Turning away from the scene, Daenys and Cregan made their way to the dragonpit. There, Jacaerys and Baela were whispering together in hushed voices. They both donned similar armor to Daenys', though in the colors of their dragons and Houses alike. They looked a fine pair, already matching as if they'd been wed for years. Upon spotting the Princess and Lord approaching, Baela cleared her throat.

"Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to formally meet you. I'm glad to hear of your bethrothal to my cousin. I'm sure a fruitful partnership will be upon us soon." She smiled diplomatically, as if she had practiced the words in her head before saying them. Daenys stifled a laugh as her eyes met Baela's warm, dark purple eyes, the knowing look shared between them always making her cave into girlish whims.

The Lady was a stark contrast to her own bethrothed beside her, who scowled and pouted like a boy left out of a game to attend his studies. "Lord Cregan." He stiffly bowed his head in greeted and said no more.

"Lady Baela, it pleases me to meet any kin of Princess Daenys. I wish you a safe journey to you and a swift victory at Duskendale." Cregan said smoothly, dipping his head in respect to the woman.

Daenys reached Baela, pulling her in for a hug and whispering, "see you soon, sister. We will both bring back good news." Baela nodded her confident agreement, saying her 'goodbyes' to Jace before mounting her striped dragon and beginning her short flight.

Jacaerys seemed to flounder in the absence of his bethrothed, now able to speak more freely without any scolding looks from Baela (she and Daemon shared a fierce stern face that always shut Jace up swiftly, much to Daenys' amusement). "I was not expecting him to come along." He said, looking directly at Cregan but speaking past him.

"Of course he's coming, brother. I need a skilled swordsman at my side." She said lightly, approaching the perch just past him to scritch at Vermax's chin, who had climbed slightly up to meet the one who had not visited for quite some time. The yellow eyes of the dragon seemed to follow Cregan closely, a dangerous mirror of his rider.

"Am I not a skilled swordsman?" He asked, turning to face her with a hand resting on his sword's pommel.

You're a swordsman.

She refrained herself from quipping so meanly in front of Cregan, knowing Jacaerys would be embarrassing and offended rather than play along with her teasings as he usually did. "Of course you are." She soothed. "But who knows how many men will be stationed in the keep? I want to ensure there are no slip-ups or chances for a sneak attack."

Reluctantly, he backed down. With a brief touch to her arm, Jacaerys bid Daenys a safe flight. "Do not land until it is clear." He advised, earning an annoyed glare from his sister.

"I fear that I am now the more experienced fighter here, Jace." She said, raising a light brow. He rolled his dark eyes, stepping off the platform and situating himself on Vermax's dark red saddle. With a shout, the green dragon was out of sight past the mouth of the cave.

Cregan took a gloved hand in his, squeezing twice in a supporting reminder. "Best we don't let him get too far ahead. Or else the whole keep might just be burned down."

"Vermax and Jace have quite the fiery temperments." Daenys stated. "Morningstar, are you awake?" She called into the darkness.

Hearing a clicking response from the dragoness, Daenys felt her shoulders relax from the tension they had carried all night. The white dragon appeared from the depths, showing her bright violet gaze set straight on the two as she swaggered towards them. Glancing to her shoulders, Daenys gingerly reached out to glide a hand near the wound. It looked significantly better now that a balm had been applied and the wound properly cleaned. Instead of the angry red that it had been, the claw marks were now a dark pink color that mostly showed irritation rather than blood. The wounds were not as deep as she originally feared. "My brave girl. Are you ready to fly again?"

Morningstar trilled as if to wholeheartedly agree. Her wings fluttered as she met Daenys' hand with her large muzzle, a purr escaping her throat. "Let us go, then." She told Cregan, whose storm-grey eyes had never quite left her.

Together, they mounted the dragoness and left the cave with a joyful roar from Morningstar.

It was not long before they caught up with Vermax, who trilled when he saw his kin flying next to him. It had been many weeks since their last joint flight. Jace smiled warmly at his older sister, and they both almost forgot that their destination was to fight a battle in the war for their family's throne.

They crossed the sea within minutes, Daenys forcing herself to have a clear mind as they approached the stone walls. The once-green fields were now brown and charred, still filled with the hundreds of dead men who lost their lives, either fighting or to Meleys' and Morningstar's dragonfire. It was all too easy to be in the air and kill men by the multitudes, too easy to take lives. It didn't even quite feel like murder due to the disconnection provided by the catalyst that Morningstar was. That didn't make the swelling guilt disappear, however.

Morningstar swopped down from the cloudline quickly, taking the command Daenys shouted to her and not allowing the men in the fields to escape indoors. Her grip on the saddle's handlebars was tight and blistering, but she could not waver now. The men who were dragging their dead fellow soldiers had now joined them, black and unrecognizable. The unmistakable smell of burning human flesh had filled her senses, making her dizzy and unfocused once again. Cregan's deep voice filled her ears, placing a hand over hers on the handle to gather her attention. "You must stay focused, Daenys." He said as gently as he could over the raging roars and flames of the two dragons. She nodded quickly, forcing the bile down her throat. There was no room for weakness now.

It was over as quickly as it started, with Vermax and Morningstar circling the keep before landing in front of it.

Directly under the shade of the keep's entrance was Sunfyre. Worn and tired, the dragon still managed a ferocious and warning roar to scare his kin away.

It was not effective, though Daenys felt a pang of sympathy for the abandoned dragon. He was left behind while Aegon and Aemond went back to King's Landing, as if he were a mere guard dog posted to a station. Daenys dismounted, earning a concerned shout from Jacaerys atop of Vermax.

She slowly approached The Golden, allowing her hands to rest low and away from her body, the white scales glimmering in the sunlight the same way his did. He rose his neck high, though his wings were lifting up and down from the floor as if it hurt to put too much weight on them. She grimaced, knowing that was her own fault. The dragons suffered, too, in the battles they had fought, and they didn't even know why. Dragons didn't care for a throne or crown, but solely for their riders and kin.

"Daenys!" Jace shouted again, jumping from Vermax's saddle and following Cregan who had immediately trailed after Daenys. Cregan had stopped yards away, standing tensely and with calculating eyes but not trying to stop her. He had seen what she had done previously, and trusted her judgement. She would not approach a hostile dragon mindlessly.

"My Prince," he stopped Jacaerys with a firm hand to his chest, earning a furious glare from the Velayron.

She took a few steps closer, holding a hand out for Sunfyre for sniff. If she lost it, so be it. If he tried to burn her, no harm would be done. Daenys held back a flinch as he did just what she hoped, pressed his sharp snout into her palm.

A sudden vision filled her mind, painful like a sharp and drilling migraine. Aegon, unburnt or harmed, dressed in his finest drapes and wearing Aegon the Conquerer's grey crown. He held a goblet high in the air, surrounded by many peasent and knighted men and servant girls. "To my brother, who has slain the whore of Dragonstone's bastard son!"

Cheers erupted from all corners of the large and echoing hall. Goblets raised and wine and ale alike spilled all over men and tables. Aegon chugged down his bittersweet wine, presenting an empty goblet for the hall to see and a young maid to refill. "To Aemond! The true Blood of the Dragon!"

Next to 'The King' sat the very brother in question. Aemond Targaryen did not hold any glasses of wine or even a grin atop his sharp features. He simply leaned back into his chair, stiff as a flagpole and face blank and unreadable.

Daenys was drawn out as quickly as she was drawn in. What was that? A vision in broad daylight had never happened before. Could she see the past as well as the future? She could not dwell on it now, but upon her return home, such matters could be explored in the privacy and safety of her room.

Glancing up briefly, Daenys' sharp gaze caught sight of a man ducking behind the castle's wall on the tower's roof. Though they had not made their entrance discreet, Daenys had still hoped to catch a few more by surprise than she did. There was no way of knowing just how many soldiers lay in the safety of the keep.

Sunfyre almost whined at the touch, yearning for attention in the past few days. Daenys knew that Aegon rarely visited the dragonpit even when Sunfyre was readily available, too deep in his whores and cups. The poor thing was so deeply loyal, but so lonely despite his devotion. "There's a good boy, Sunfyre." She spoke softly in the same voice she used for her youngest brothers. He hung his head, allowing his exhaustion to finally show in the face of trust. Glancing back at the two men behind her, she sucked in a harsh breath to prepare herself for what was inside. "Go along, to Morningstar." She whispered to the dragon, watching him painfully carry himself towards the others. He submissively lowered his neck to Morningstar as the larger dragon sniffed cautiously at him, and after some time of reunion she allowed Sunfyre to lie at her side, curling up and finally letting himself rest. He'd been guarding Rook's Rest for days. Daenys would not consider herself too far off in assuming that he'd been given no food or water. What fool would approach a fire-breathing dragon, anyway?

Cregan smiled proudly, nodding to Daenys and striding towards her to meet her while Jace gaped at the sight and glanced between the dragons and his sister. "You made Sunfyre listen to you?" He asked, approaching them too.

"He's not an enemy." She vaguely said. "But, we could use him."

"Use Sunfyre? He would take no other rider? And...I doubt he'd fly again." Cregan said awkwardly, gesturing towards the torn wings.

"If we keep him on Dragonstone, Aegon cannot say he has three grown dragons any longer." Daenys said, lifting her chin. "The realm would not know how incompacitated he is—but they will know that Sunfyre turned sides against his own bonded rider. If that's not a sign from the 'Gods', what is?"

Jacaerys hummed thoughtfully, though he seemed to agree. "And what of Tessarion, the Blue Queen? And Jaehaera and Jaehaerys must have dragons—had dragons." He whispered after.

"The children's dragons are no older than seven, brother." Daenys said. Though, she was unclear on where Jaehaerys' dragon would be now that the boy was dead. Perhaps in the dragonpits still, forced to wait for a new Targaryen to bond with. Morghul and Glaeson, two black dragons with strong Valyrion names.

"And as for Daeron—" Daenys started, rolling her eyes at Jacaerys' sour look. "The boy is only ten years of age. What does that say about the Greens if they force him to war? Though, I would not be surprised given their desperation for dragons. I do hope the young ones do not have to grow up living in a time of war." She sighed, thinking of her youngest brothers, Jaehaera, and even Daeron, whom she had only known as the smallest of babes before he left to ward in Old Town.

Jace was stunned to silence for a few moments before laughing brightly. "When did you get so cunning?" He asked, looking to Cregan as if the man could answer his rhetorical question for her.

"It is a good plan, Princess." Cregan nodded, ignoring Jacaerys' look. "How do you plan on getting him across the sea?"

"Boat." She shrugged, "I will arrange for one to be sent from Dragonstone as soon as we reclaim the castle."

The Stark nodded his agreement with her idea, unsheathing Ice from his shoulder as Jace followed his actions, wielding Sea Tamer in his hands. "At your command, Princess." Cregan said. Jacaerys opened his mouth to make a remark at his sister's previous words about her experience, but shut it as he decided against any smart words.

"Sister," he nodded.

Daenys, only wielding her direwolf dagger in hand, slowly crept open the massive wooden doors. No one had stayed to guard the very front of the halls, knowing that a dragon could still reach its ire in the shallow depths. Instead of creeping through the halls like invaders attempting their luck at a sneak attack, the trio of three barged into the castle, rearing to fight. This was their claim, and they would not let it go again.

Jacaerys and Cregan led the way in front of Daenys with their swords in front of them, brows set and eyes sharp. A split in the hall came quickly, to the annoyance of them all. "It will take forever to flush them all out." Jacaerys commented.

"I need to find Kalla and Kallus. They will be held at knifepoint first to make us surrender." Daenys said seriously, glancing down each hall and mapping doors in her mind. One must lead to the kitchens and dining hall, and the other must lead to important chamber rooms and studies. Which would the Green men hold their hostages in?

Cregan looked down at her, seeing the wheels turning in her mind. "Which hall, Daenys?"

She stilled her heart and breath, closing her eyes to focus. Even as she focused, she could not summon the same visions as before. Trying not to let frustration well up in her, Daenys instead chose the most instinctive choice. "I should think the dining hall. Hard to be cornered with so many exits."

They toed down the hallway towards the open archway to the dining hall. It was a spacious room, good for balls or feasts or celebrations of the Lord's choosing. Instead of a grand feast being presented to them, the Velayrons and Stark were instead faced with the young Lord and Lady Saunton held by the necks. Three Green soliders held them still, long swords awkwardly at their throats and ready to move.

The young Kalla was nothing like her Lord Father, who was executed the day Daenys fought over his castle. In her early 20's, with bright red hair and deep blue eyes, the Lady clearly trembled in the hold of the older soldier's arms but held a steely and defiant look in her eyes.

Her younger brother, no older than six or seven, could not hold back his whimpers of fear. With black hair like his father, Kallus was next in line to be Lord, though that would not happen for many years. Or, if he died today. The siblings looked scruffed up and dirtied by the events that held them trapped in their own home. Hair messy and face smeared with blood from the soldier's hands and dirt from the floor, eyes red and puffy from their loss, and worried lines of stress on their foreheads. Daenys did not know if they would recover emotionally from this—even after years of peace.

"Surrender now and put down your weapons!" A scrawny young soldier yelled at them. "Or we'll kill them."

"If a single hair on their heads is out of place, we have two dragons standing outside on the ready to sear you to ash." Jacaerys bit sharply, unyielding.

"Three." Daenys added, glancing around the room between Cregan and Jacaerys. There was a single door behind the soldiers, possibly leading to the kitchens. Another much larger door stood parallel to all of them, the barricaded exit to the courtyard of Rook's Rest's castle. The sunlight poured in warmly from the windows in the room, leaving the room in a golden glow. If she moved the wooden panels holding the door, perhaps Vermax could fit through the opening and finish the job for them. Though, it would put the bystanders at too much of a risk.

"Yes, I saw that." The older soldier who held Kalla sniffed harshly. "The Witch of Dragonstone has enchanted the King's own dragon. Dragons can't help you in here." He sneered.

"And what will you do when we are all surrendered?" Cregan spoke up. "Take us out of the castle to the capitol? The dragons can wait for years. This Keep's food supply can not."

The two soldiers shared knowing glances. They were not stupid. They knew they had little options in Rook's Rest now that they were surrounded by dragons indoors and outside.

The younger man shouted something that Daenys did not quite catch in her surprise. Following his command, a few more soldiers flooded into the room from the archway that they entered from. Daenys shared a glance with Cregan, cursing herself for not deciding to clear the halls before going for Kalla and Kallus. She had figured to grab the hostages and rush outside to draw them out with promise of mercy, but now that idea was drifting further from the forefront of her mind. She shuffled closer to her bethrothed, clutching the dagger tight by her side.

Four behind, two in front. The numbers were not too far against them, she supposed, considering Cregan and Jacaerys' experience and skill most likely outdid that of these greener hedge knights. Jace may not have real battle experience like Cregan did against wildlings, but he did gain his knowledge of fighting during his time as a squire for Ser Steffon Darklyn. Daenys was quite unsure of her own capabilities in a fight against swords, seeing as she had none of her own and never cared to learn the art.

This had to be all of them. Daenys hoped that thought ran through her companion's minds, too. The rest were dead and burned out in the black fields.

"Would the dragons be so willing to burn us if we had their riders in hand?" The elder scowled again. The younger straightened up, nodding proudly like he had won.

"Want to find out?" Daenys asked, looking him straight in the eye unflinching.

This seemed to give them pause, hesitant glances between the men. One spoke up from behind, clearly itching to fight. "Just kill the little bastards and get it over with. There's no use in keeping them alive, Oskar."

This seemed to have been a recurring argument amongst the stationed soldiers. "What did Cole say, remind me of it, Bennard?" The eldest asked, exasperated at the eager soldier's impaitience.

"What does it matter what that Dornishman said? The king is dead, and we have this castle all to ourselves!"

"The King is not dead, you treasonous fool!" The younger yelled back to him, shifting and loosening his hold on Kallus.

Noting the loose grip, Daenys glanced briefly towards the boy before taking a chance to look over her shoulder. None of the soldiers had prepared for this raid, apparently. All still in regular tunics and breeches, no armor was dorned at all.

"The Usurper is not dead." Daenys said, though she was still unsure of that herself. "But he did abandon your little troupe here, did he not? To gain no glory in battle or seize any land. Old and sick dogs protecting a worn and empty home." She shared an amused glance with Jacaerys for show.

"I'd imagine no one would bother to reclaim Rook's Rest a second time, given all the trouble it took to get it in the first place." Jace added. "Criston Cole wouldn't bother giving this place a second glance."

Oskar and the younger shared a look of grievance. They shared those thoughts before, too.

"They would not know if you died for this place or simply abandoned it." She concluded, gentler this time. "We will allow you to live the rest of your traitorous lives in peace, for the return of Lord Staunton's children. Or, you can share the fate of those men outside. I'm sure you heard what their end sounded like." A grim sentiment, but necessary.

Cregan eyed her from her side, though he did not speak. Wielding Ice at waist level, towering above all the men in the room, the Northerner almost made the Southern-blooded men seem dwarved. He was not here to negotiate, but carry out his Princess and Prince's command. Daenys proudly noted the glances they had all been warily giving Cregan since he walked into the hall.

Oskar, standing straight and boring dark eyes down at Daenys, spoke up first. "It would be treason." He said darkly.

"Treason to your pretender?" She snarked. "They are much too busy holing up in their Holdfast to chase after and execute every man who deserted their cause."

"I think we should take the chance while we've got it, Oskar." The younger whispered, not very quietly. His gaze grew worried as he shifted on his feet. "I want to go home. It's been moons. Me mum must be thinking I'm dead by now."

Daenys felt pity for the group. Especially the youngest, who had his whole life left to live. The elder, who might be around Daemon's age, must have a wife and children back at his home, wherever that might be.

With a sigh, Oskar nodded. Preparing to speak a truce, but was interrupted by a frustrated yell from behind. "I'm sick of this talk! The Witch will not cast any more spells on you soft lot!" A man from behind shouted, charging immediately for Daenys. She could only turn on her heel in time to catch his arm, bringing them both down to the floor in a tumble. Though she saw Cregan and Jace swiftly move to defend her, the other men that once flanked him moved in to attack them, too.

Wearing a distasteful yellow that could only be the house colors of the Baratheons, the older man grunted as he struggled to pin Daenys to the stone floor and grab the sword that fell from his grip at the same time. With her steel dagger in hand, she writhed to get the arm out from under his heavy form.

Gasping at the wind being taken from her chest at the sudden fall and weight, it was not an easy task. "Bastard witch..." he grunted out, finally grasping his sword by the sharp sides. Uncaring that it cut through the thin skin of his fingers, he pulled it closer and sat up, finally allowing her to breathe and clutch her dagger to her bossum. Both of them heaved with effort, but the wild look in his eyes frightened her to no end. The look reminded her of Seamus, who sought revenge through the wrong person. "You and your whore mother will never lead the realm, lest it be brought to ruin." He snarled out, spit wetting his thin lips. The sounds of steel clashing rung like bells around the room, impossible to keep track of as movement and shouts sounded from all sides.

As he raised the sword over his head, the yellow-dressed soldier was bumped to the ground, groaning at the impact. On his side, the companion soldier who brought him down in the first place lie died and unmoving, like he had been thrown. Daenys did not waste time to allow him to think, twisting to her front to sit on her knees as if in prayer. With a swift movement, Daenys jabbed the dagger downwards into the side of Bennard's neck. As she tore it out just as fast, hot blood shot out immediately in response to the wound, even while the man was gasping and grabbing at his neck, covering the empty slit. Blood pooled around him as he eventually gave in to the Stranger, life leaving his fury-filled eyes.

Daenys wildly sprung to her feet, taking ragged steps back from the two corpses. She tripped backward over a third, though was caught by the waist and forearm by Cregan. Panting, she clutched at his arms with bloody hands. "Cregan?" She asked, disbelieving the situation. Yes, she had entered Rook's Rest knowing she'd most likely have to kill a man, but physically doing it was a whole different feeling. Seamus burned on top of her for what felt like days, and hundreds were felled to her Dragon's blue fire weeks later. But she had never dug her steel into a breathing man's skin, never watched the light leave his eyes of the last breath leave his lungs.

"I'm here." He said steadily, showing no signs of panic or change like she did. Behind Cregan's broad shoulders, she could see Jacaerys push the final man from his sword's shaft by kicking him off of it. Turning to face the remaining two men, who had stayed with the fallen Lord's children, Daenys saw the hopelessness in both of their eyes. She righted herself quickly, nodding her thanks to Cregan before stepping over the other bodies. In front of the four remaining people, Daenys saw a comforted knowledge in both Kallus and Kalla, knowing that they were safe now as they were released from the holds.

Oskar and the younger held their hands up in surrender. "I did not wish for that to happen, Princess." He swore solemnly. "Please, spare us still. We swear to leave Rook's Rest and return home, we will never speak of this to anyone."

Daenys glanced at Jace, who had a hardened look in his eyes. He, too, had killed his first man by his own hands. Her younger brother, who she had wished to keep his innocence for as long as possible, was a boy no longer. She swallowed harshly. "Let this be a lesson of mercy from Queen Rhaenyra." Were her final words to the two, who gratefully bowed and scurried out from the room.

Free now, the two siblings released heavy sobs from deep in their chests and hugged each other tightly. Daenys smiled faintly at the sight, relieved to see both unharmed. Kalla looked up from her kneeling position, tearfully grinning. "Thank you, Princess." She said through her sobs. Kallus shook in her hold, the built-up tension from the past days finally showing itself. He could be a boy again, not a hostage doomed for death.

Daenys approached carefully, kneeling to each of their levels. "Are you two unharmed?" She asked, glancing over them.

Kalla took a moment to hold Kallus back at an arms' length while she inspected him. With a courageous sniffle, the boy nodded and mumbled something Daenys could not hear.

"We are fine." Kalla said, weakly smiling as she stood straight and brushed off her dirty skirts. "May we...freshen ourselves up? We have not been able to since our father was taken."

"Taken?" Daenys sniffed.

Kalla nodded discreetly towards Kallus, who busied himself in looking entranced by Daenys' dragonscale armor. Daenys made an 'o' shape with her mouth, forgetting the implication that the two had not personally seen the execution of their father. "Yes. Go on, we will wait for you." Daenys said. She was glad that at least they were not forced to witness the murder, but instead, Cole allowed the young boy to keep his innocence and believe his father was simply taken away.

Perhaps the one favor he did the realm.

Turning to Jace and Cregan, after the brother and sister left to their chamber rooms, she sighed. "Are you two okay?" She asked, quieter now. The room was filled with empty silence now that everyone else had either died or left. The bodies at their feet were still and growing cold, though would soon start to stink if they did not get removed. Daenys wanted no part in that process.

"Are you?" Cregan asked instead, stepping forward to hold her hand in his. His grey eyes held a slight apprehension from the way he had been unable to fully protect her—again. Daenys could not and would not fault him, for two men had attacked him. Behind, Jace shuffled uncomfortably. He had been deathly still, too, a pale look on his face.

"I'm fine, just got winded." She said shortly, nodding affirmingly. Looking to Jace, she asked again. "Do you want to step out?"

Nodding quickly and covering his mouth, Jacaerys quietly excused himself from the room to rush out the way that they had come. Daenys knew the feeling. Even now, it was hard not to spill her guts after the heavy guilt pressed on her conscience.

"I should go check on him." She offered, looking up through her lashes to Cregan, who had been staring at her the entire time. "If you can—"

"I will take care of them." He hummed, gesturing towards the door. "Go see if your brother is well."

"Thank you." She said gratefully, squeezing his hand before making her way after her brother.

Outside, barely having made it to the grass instead of the cobble, Jacaerys was hunched over and heaving. Daenys sympathized greatly, slowly rubbing her hand up and down his back in the same way their mother had often done for them. "Let it all out, Jace." She said.

"I'm not a child." He said, defensively as he stood to full height.

"I know that." She whispered, squinting against the sunlight. "But you just killed a man—no one is prepared for that."

"Lord Stark was." He scoffed, wiping at his mouth and groaning in disgust but not shoving away her comforting hand.

"Cregan has experienced battle more than we have. He fights against the Wildlings in the North—he's no stranger to death."

He groaned again, this time not so much in disgust as it was simply petulance. Daenys bit her cheek, keeping herself from smiling at the childish behavior. "He's just perfect at everything, isn't he?"

"He's three years your elder, Jace." She reminded him. "And had to be Warden of the entire North at only eight and ten. Of course he's more experienced."

"I am a Prince." Jacaerys said, defeated.

"You are." She responded, questioning his sudden statement.

"I should be like that—not throwing up my breakfast at the first sight of blood. What kind of Prince can't defend his people?" He asked, slumping down against the wall.

She sat with him. "You are young, Jace. No one expects you to be perfect right away. We've only just now been thrust into a war when there's been none since before our grandsire's time."

"They do expect it." He mumbled, looking to the three dragons in the field. "Mother has set our expectations quite high."

"She's not so perfect." Daenys said. Once, only a few weeks ago, she would have agreed. That Rhaenyra was a being of perfect grace and poise, not to be touched by the bad of the world. Now, she wasn't so inclined. Rhaenyra was her mother, and she loved her dearly, but she was still a liar. Daenys had once dreaded to leave Dragonstone, but these days, she felt more eager to move on to her martial home with Cregan and be free of the people who allowed her to feel insane. Being able to come and go as she pleased to visit seemed like a distant dream.

🗡

Jacaerys whipped his head to her, dark brows knitted together as he huffed a short laugh. "You always say that, Dae. That mother is near perfect." His words were confused, almost disbelieving.

Daenys pursed her lips, nodding. Should she tell him the truth? If she allowed him to believe Laenor was still dead, she was no better than the three of them. But the cluelessness brought him peace. He was able to mourn their father in a healthy way over time, in every way she could not. He did not blame himself like she did. "I don't think anyone is." She said finally. Now was not the correct time, anyway, when he was so lost in his conflicted mind too.

Laenor, Rhaenyra, Ser Harwin. Those who she idolized for years. She felt a deep betrayal when the two men who raised her left—a hole not able to be filled. Rhaenyra was not perfect, though her children all thought her to be. Their eyes were bright and hoping, and of course, their mother was the guiding beacon that brought the light. Adults don't share the same sentiments as their child selves did. It was inevitable to change. Daenys was at least grateful to be able to trust her mind again. Though, she was unsure if it was due to her own independent growth in the North or because of her mother sharing the truth.

She hoped it was because of herself. Just one thing, attributed to her.

Jacaerys eyed her a moment longer before giving in and nodding. Clearly, he could tell there was more to it but would not pry. Perhaps he suspected Daenys was resentful for Rhaenyra discreetly suggesting to offer herself for the Northmen. "Well..." He started, standing and offering her a hand.

"Let's check on the children." Daenys finished, standing too with his aid.

He snorted, leading the way inside. "The girl is older than you."

She narrowed her eyes playfully, shaking her head. "I am taller."

"Does that make me your elder?"

"Never."

They shared a warm and amused smile.

In the dining hall, the bodies were gone. The board covering the courtyard exit was removed, too, and the doors were wide open. The fresh air was pleasant to feel in the stuffy room. At the table, Cregan sat in front of an unmannered sibling duo. The two were working on their simple plates of food, scarfing it all down like rabid animals. She couldn't blame them, the poor things were likely starved.

They met eyes quickly, Cregan standing to guide her to a seat at the bench next to him. Jace rolled his eyes again at the effort, grossed out by the affection. He slumped down next to Daenys, folding his hands in front of them and sipping at a wine poured in front of him. The staff were floundering about, looking in good spirits. She guessed they were used as personal servents to the soldiers—none of the hedge knights having been used to such grand luxury. Daenys briefly thanked the young man pouring her wine, but gently refused an offer for bread or stew.

"Lady Kalla. Is the Maester still around?" She asked tentatively, politely sipping at her wine instead of staring at the young lady.

She nodded, swallowing a chunk of rabbit. "Yes, your highness. He is still here, only confined to his rooms."

"Still? Has he not been let out?" Jacaerys asked.

Kalla smiled girlishly, bashful at the handsome princes' attention on her. "No, he simply always stays in there. Bad knees." She giggled softly, to ease the slight tension.

They nodded in turn. "So there are still ravens in the tower then, yes?" She asked.

Kalla hesitated before slowly nodding. "There should be. I think the soldiers used them to communicate with the King."

Daenys raised a brow, nonverbally waiting for her to correct herself.

She blushed again, apologizing quickly. "My mistake, Princess. They said 'My King' so many times that the words have ingrained themselves. To the Pretender." She fixed. "If you wish, I could send a raven to wherever you wish."

"Thank you, Lady Kalla." She smiled. "I can do that myself. Though, you should get to Lord Staunton's solar and begin familiarizing yourself."

She straightened, looking confused. "Familiarize?"

"You are the head of House Staunton, now. You will be expected to host any Black forces on your land as well as our naval forces. I hope this is not too overwhelming, but there really is not other choice."

"But—Kallus is the heir." She said in a hushed tone.

Glancing at Kallus, the young boy now done with his food and swishing the sauce in the bowl back and forth with his fork, and tensely sighed. "He may be the heir when Lord Staunton was here, but it will be over a decade before he is ready for the role. You must lead, as Lady." She said firmly. "The Queen will make the change in leadership official."

Lady Kalla froze, uneasily fiddling with her sleeve. "I have not been prepared for this."

Neither was the Queen herself. The men of the realm never seem to prepare their daughters for the world, even when they are grown and alone.

"I know." Daenys said, reaching for her hand. "But you must. For your father. And him." She nodded towards Kallus, who curiously met her eyes. Kalla looked down at her brother before turning back to Daenys, firmly nodded.

"I will try, Princess." She spoke.

"That is all I ask." Daenys said, standing from her seat. "I will begin my letter to The Queen. Jace?" She asked, gesturing for him to follow.

He did, hot on her heels as they went down a winding hall to an old hallway that led to the raven tower. In it, the birds squaked endlessly at the intrusion. "What is it?" Jacaerys asked, leaning on the table that Daenys sat herself at.

"Will you join me on the boat back to Dragonstone?" She asked.

He tensed, folding his arms over each other. "I was hoping to fly out to the Twins, while mother allows me to be out. I will not have another chance under her guard."

"I know." Daenys said, scribbling away. "I think you should—the Twins are vital for Cregan's men to travel to the Riverlands."

Jacaerys nodded severely. "What if they ask for a dragon?" He pondered. "Lady Jeyne already has, no doubt other houses bending their knees to us will get greedy."

"We cannot spare the adults." Daenys said flatly. "The babes were a means to placate Jeyne's worries. The Freys are too far North to need such protection, I think."

"Not too far for Vhagar." Jace reminded her.

"She will not be willing to fly so far. She's old, and injured. Her balance will be horrible, only good for short and predictable flights. Tell them that." She nodded to herself, mumbling the words she wrote out slightly to focus.

"Right." He trailed, taking the words in. Leaning over her shoulder, he read the words aloud to affirm.

"Dear Queen Rhaenyra, Rook's Rest has been reclaimed. Lady Kalla and young Kallus are alive and well, and I have named Kalla Lady of House Staunton. Please send a spacious barge to to docks here, with a small crew of trusted men. Perhaps Lord Corlys could make the journey personally, and I believe that Eveningstar would be well-suited for the trip. She has not seen open waters since father last sailed out.

Sunfyre will be making the journey on this ship. Do not send any men who are easily panicked. The dragon is injured, but I believe keeping him on Dragonstone's fields is a good defense and show of our strength. Well wishes, Daenys Velayron."

He sat back, humming in thought. "You really think Sunfyre will take a boat back to Dragonstone?"

"It is a short trip." She shrugged. "If I can make him obey out there, I can convince him to get on a boat."

Jacaerys smiled nostalgically. "I don't understand how you did that. Even Vermax wouldn't heed your command, and he adores you."

Daenys looked out the window, past the sleek black head of a raven. "I couldn't say, brother. But I do know that it is my fault that he will never fly again, so it's my responsibility to take care of him now."

Jacaerys nodded. Looking out at the three dragons cuddled up together (though Vermax was on Morningstar's flank opposite of Sunfyre, eyeing the golden one mistrustfully), he held his hand heavily on his pommel. "I will leave now. With luck, I think I'll make it back home before you do."

"Not luck, Jace." She chuckled. "Mother will tear open a new one for you—and I won't be there to mediate."

He paled, groaning in realization. "I'll take the boat back with you, then."

"Too late." She stood, rolling up the scroll and sending it off with no wax stamped onto it. "You should go before those old Freys take their afternoon nap."

Jacaerys scoffed, kissing his sister's temple 'goodbye' before leaving the room with a swish of his half-cape.

Daenys looked out of the empty windowsil, watching Jace mount the emerald dragon before leaving as fast as he came. They had been lucky today, perhaps too lucky for her ease of mind. Something was surelt brewing on the horizon. Shaking the thought from her mind, she found Cregan at the bottom of the steps.

"Daenys." He greeted with a soft smile. "Lady Kalla and her brother have retreated to their rooms."

"Good." She rolled her shoulder slightly, wishing to get out of this dusty place and stretch her legs. "Would you join me?"

"Anywhere, Princess."

"I wish to hunt for Sunfyre. He's probably starved after all these days out here."

Cregan nodded, taking her hand into the crook of his arms. "Like old times, then."

She laughed, "that was hardly in the past. I expect it will become tradition for us in Winterfell."

His eyes lit up at the thought. "You wish to continue camping around the wilderness, even after your residence in Winterfell?"

"A dragon gets restless easily."

It was his turn to laugh lightly. "Indeed, she does."

The Jacegon onesided beef continues (like Aegon and Daenys)

Thinking of dragon parentage again-how Morningstar is Silverwing's egg for sure but unsure about the father and if there even is one for dragons. But continuing off that—Sunfyre. He is theoried to be either Dreamfyre's or Silverwing's egg, with Vermithor as a possible sire. I for one think his show face shape is kind of similar to Silverwing's show face shape.

Morningstar and Sunfyre from the same clutch? Though hatching in different years as some eggs do. They both have tremendous and unique bonds with their riders, and are around the same age.

aging Daeron down because i dont know his full lore and have no interest in adding him to the Dance at all. Technically he does have Tessarion still but she's about the size of Tyraxes.

wanted to name a sword and Sea Tamer just sounded badass so

Aemond sending children and their dragons off to war core. Those memes always send me, he'd do it too if he could

[morallygreychaoticneutral]

Astarion was not a "corrupt" magistrate.

Hello again. Just more opinion about my favorite battle buddy. Warning, trigger words in use. Game spoilers.

It's not quite set in stone that Astarion really was a magistrate, but we are going to go with the idea he was for this thought pocket. Also this is just game as it is now info use.

I don't believe he was corrupt magistrate. There were a few things in the game that called that out, but one in particular really set it in stone for me.

His response to the Ansur lair puzzle regarding justice.

Astarion: “Mercy?! Please. Justice should be a harsh lesson. All the better to deter the next vagabond.”

This makes me think he was a bit of a hard ass as a magistrate, but not corrupt. Had he been dealing dirty in the background I really feel like this answer would have been more dismissive or flippant. But he is pretty intent that this is his stance. Very, iv said this a thousand times, type feel.

I think, he was more of a by the book, law is law type. You murder and rape you swing from the gallows. You steal from a shop keeper, you do time. Period.

My theory is, he got beat up because he wasn't lenient with a member of the Gur that was on trial.

"Leniency?! You have been found guilty of negligence resulting in the death of a innocent! You are owed nothing!"

Could you hear it?

"But he talks about being hedonistic and indulgent all the time. "

Yes, but most patriar level citizens were spoiled entitled brats that did what they desired. Have you talked to some of them in the upper city? Yeeesh.

Was he arrogant? Most likely. Prejudice? Obviously (insert gnomes here). But being a haughty jerk does not make one evil.

Sex, nudity, orgies, parties, over indulging etc are not taboo in Faerun. If everybody is consenting to be being naked in a fountain, hopefully in a private villa garden, its not a crime. He talks about that like its a memory, but I like to think his wine drunk giggly ass was actually in that fountain.

If you want to have a little rabbit hole fun, break down the name. Faerun = Fae Run = Run by the Fae. And last I checked, fairies were always down for some naked in the water time. I mean, come on, you can go to pound town with a bear. (No offence, Halsin.) You think they are going to draw the line at how may wieners you can have in the same pot? I think not.

I think the criminal behavior came after he was turned. Cazador may have been targeting him, but not because they were involved. But maybe due to him looking like his old master Vellioth? And he took advantage of a situation. Who knows, lots of ideas there.

"But he's always getting onto Tav for doing the "right" thing."

Yup, Tav is being too trusting and getting too involved with other peoples problems. Why is this an issue for Astarion? Kindness was what got him entombed for a year. He cared about that sweet mans life and was severally punished for it. Its akin to being mauled by a dog and then watching people just reach out a pet every one they see. The anxiety of that attack is still there and it paints every encounter with its opinion. Danger.

"He's not smart enough."

Oh I bet he is. You can be whip smart at a subject and socially akward at the same time. I'm very good at my job. I know it inside and out and can give you any detail, rule, configuration at the drop of a hat in the most professional and proficient way possible. But ask me to be eloquent in a social situation? HA! You are better off asking a rock to fart. Unrelated.

"But he wants to ascend, and that's evil."

That is more about who is is after years of torment and abuse. Not before.

I think the rogue role was adopted to stay alive while hunting. And what a gods awful fate to be turned into the thing you hated the most. A criminal.

I'm sure Caz was real tickled by that. Expletive Adjective.

[endwersed]

Sneak peek? 🫣 please?

Of course, anon! Here's a li'l sneak peek for the upcoming chapter 10 of the poets are right 😊

-

“Dinner was nice,” Stiles says, his voice soft, carefully casual. “I didn’t know you could cook like that.”

The water that Stiles is elbow deep into is warm, soapy suds sticking around his wrists as he scrubs rigorously at the dish in his hands. He has his sweater sleeves rolled up towards his elbows, fabric bunching tight around him, and it leaves his skin bare, leaves it free to brush up against Derek’s forearm. The brief touch feels even warmer than the water, somehow.

Peering at Derek from the corner of his eye, Stiles finds that Derek is staring steadfastly down. His fingers are curled firmly around a dishtowel, the material rumpled in his grip, rubbing meticulous, drying circles into the clean dish Stiles handed him just moments ago.

“I couldn’t always,” Derek says, still not even glancing sideways. “I, uh… I learned.”

Stiles hums. Honestly, it is as though the festive spirit has seeped all the way down to the core of him at this point in the day, because he feels too damn full of good food and good company and good wine to be anything but mellow, anything but pleasant. Even in the company of Derek, just the two of them left in this kitchen to clean up, he finds himself in a good mood. A real good mood, actually.

A good enough mood to crack jokes, even.

“Got bored of too many private chefs, huh?” he teases.

Derek huffs a laugh. Finally, his stare flicks over, snagging onto Stiles’ keen eye instantly. The smile stays curved at the corner of his mouth as they hold each other’s gazes, just looking at one another as their hands move in rhythmic, repetitive, well-practiced motions.

“Just got bored – period, actually.” A slight flush of red sweeps across Derek’s cheeks, just about visible in the low, evening light of the room. “I… I’m alone a lot. Only so many books you can get through in a row before you decide to pick up another hobby, I guess.”

Stiles pauses. The water circling his wrists ripples outwards as he blinks across at Derek.

“Oh,” he breathes. “I… yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

Of course he is alone a lot. His marriage lasted a single year. His mother snatched her selfish love away from him the moment he wriggled even an inch out from beneath her thumb. His sisters love for him is real, sure, but they have their own lives, their own loves, their own families.

Derek has nothing. An apartment, maybe. High up in the sky, empty and cold, way up above the rest of the world.

It feels like there is a too tight fist, squeezing around his heart. He forces himself to look away.

“Well, if you ever get bored of the haute cuisine,” he carries on, smile feeling thinner than before. “Maybe you can borrow that book Laura got me.”

It’s not exactly top of his damn reading list, that's for damn sure. A romance novel about young star-crossed lovers, a human and a werewolf, trying to defeat the odds with the overwhelming strength of their all-encompassing. Christ. She isn’t even trying to be subtle.

A strangled sort of noise chokes at the back of Derek’s throat. He covers it quickly with a sharp cough, tucked into the tight fist he draws up towards his mouth. His eyes dart back and forth between Stiles’ frown and the beyond dried dish in his hands more than once.

“I’ve, uh,” he starts, little more than a low sort of mumble, “read it, actually.”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow, head tilting to one side as he gazes at Derek thoughtfully.

“Oh, yeah?” he presses. “It any good?”

“You’ve probably read better,” Derek half-answers.

Stiles huffs a soft laugh, waiting a second as Derek carefully sets his item aside. He anticipates Derek’s open, waiting palm before it even presents itself, already there to pass over the next dish ready for drying.

“Glowing praise,” Stiles deadpans.

“Didn’t want to set your expectations too high,” Derek says drily. “Not that you’ll ever read it.”

“Good point,” Stiles scoffs ruefully, before letting the smile really pull at his mouth, letting it spread across his face as he turns to face Derek head on. “Was that your plan with the cooking, too? Throw me off the scent of how good you are with that lousy grilled cheese you once made for me?”

Derek arches an eyebrow, a hint of amusement touching his lips.

“I thought you liked that grilled cheese,” he says.

And Stiles is an idiot in a too good mood. He wholeheartedly blames the good food, the good company, and the good wine for the next, traitorous words that escape his mouth. Especially all of that good wine, actually.

“I liked the shirtless alpha making it for me a lot more.”