#we’re both the only left handers

[thoughtfulseason]

fencing to 15 points instead of 5 makes it so much clearer. cause like against the strongest guy i got 2 points both times (i’m glad it wasn’t 0 like most of our fights), and the one that’s quite similar to me i won by 8 points so really puts things into perspective

[ncisfranchise-source]

For a leading man in a massive series, Mark Harmon got to play Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs as a bit of a man of mystery on the “NCIS” franchise mothership series, at least up to the point that it had to exhaust whatever it was that put that haunted look in his baby blues. As portrayed by the actor over 22 seasons, Gibbs never did stop being the strong, taciturn type, but at the close of that tenure it didn’t feel like could possibly be much backstory left to mine, given the myriad flashbacks to the trauma that led the lawman to a seemingly permanent state of loner-dom. So when a prequel series for Gibbs was announced early this year, a series fan might’ve wondered: Is there any aspect of his pining for his dead wife and daughter that’s been left remotely unplummed?

But, as it turns out, “NCIS: Origins” does have a raison d’etre that doesn’t depend entirely on quickie corpse-of-the-week cases or on Shannon-and-Kelly redux. (Although, rest assured, there’s plenty of both of those.) Watching the first few episodes, you start to wonder whether the show’s existence isn’t just about milking Jethro for more tortured looks. It’s about rectifying a mistake the original series made, or at least a creative decision that was considered an error by much of the fan base: the killing-off of a beloved supporting character, Mike Franks, as a shocking plot point in Season 8. Once the series’ producers presumably realized that might’ve been a misstep, it was too late to bring him back — though God knows they tried, as character actor Muse Watson got to come back again and again as network television’s favorite recurring ghost (or, sure, imaginary conscience). With “Origins,” the franchise not only gets to resurrect Franks, but give Gibbs the chance to be part of a buddy drama. The new show looks like it will be more of a two-hander than first imagined… or at least, with any luck, it will be.

But as fans well know going into the Oct. 13 premiere, none of the cast members from the still-ongoing original series are returning to play their 1991 selves. (Sorry, de-aging fans… at least you have that upcoming Tom Hanks movie to look forward to.) Gibbs is played by — no, not Harmon’s son, Sean Harmon, who portrayed his dad’s character in multiple “NCIS” flashback episodes, and is executive-producing here — but by Austin Stowell, a relative unknown to most viewers. Stowell bears a resemblance to the senior (or junior) Harmon that is, shall we say, inexact. Kyle Schmid, who steps in for Watson as a 1991 Mike Franks, is closer to the guy we remember on screen, minus two or three decades of accumulated crustiness. Will you buy these two as younger, more livewire versions of the dynamic duo that never quite got its full due in the 2000s and 2010s? It remains to be seen how many episodes it might take for the fandom’s collective brain to do a complete reset, but you can guess that “NCIS: Origins” will get a long runway to try to accomplish that.

When we first re-meet Gibbs at the beginning of the two-parter premiere, “Enter Sandman,” his wife and daughter have already been killed, which is quite a relief — no one really needed a full dramatization of that buildup. He’s messed up enough by that still-recent tragedy that he’s failed a psych evaluation, we’re repeatedly told, yet Franks either has undue faith in his sniper-turned-investigator skills or just sees giving him the NCIS gig as a form of rehab. (Make that NIS, actually … the logos on the caps and jackets in the new series stay true to how the Naval Investigative Service didn’t pick up its “C” until 1992. It also jokily alludes to how, prior to “NCIS” going to series in 2003, few civilians had any idea what the hell either acronym meant.) They’re all working out of Camp Pendleton in California under the direction of Special Agent Cliff Walker (Patrick Fischler, always to be remembered by some of us as the guy who gets literally scared to death behind a diner in “Mulholland Drive”). For once in a primary “NCIS” series, neither Walker nor anybody else in charge is portrayed initially as an ambiguous, possibly adversarial figure — at least not yet; Walker just seems a little nervous and preoccupied.

No nerves for Mike Franks, though — a cocky, mustachioed figure of indeterminate Southern origin who wears his machismo and political incorrectness on his suspenders. The Franks of “NCIS: Origins” might be the least tortured of any special agent in franchise history, or at least since early-DiNozzio days. It will surely be easy to overplay the character’s inconsideration for polite norms, but viewers may get a kick out of the scene in an early episode where a suspect is seen being interrogated on video about his belief in the fearsome Mothman legend — and the show’s editors keep cutting to Franks leading his colleagues in uproarious, derisive laughter. Meanwhile, female team members have a locker room discussion over whether or not Franks is a misogynist who deliberately passes them over for promotions. He might be, but the character is so lovable that, if so, he’s probably in line for some enlightenment before the season is up. As played by Schmid, this Franks looks and sounds a little like a ruder and cruder Ted Lasso. It’s an enjoyable fine line to watch him play, in this early going.

Watching Stowell land in the role of Gibbs presents a bigger hurdle. Even his entrance music asks fans to reconsider the hero they thought they knew: He drives onto the Camp Pendleton base cranking up the Pearl Jam. Is that just to establish some period flavor, or is it really meant to blow our minds that Gibbs was once an Eddie Vedder kinda guy? (Franks, for his part, is introduced with some circa-1991 Hank Jr., rather on the nose.) Stowell seems like a hunkier, taller, more chiseled Gibbs than the one we met deeper into middle age, and indeed, the women in the office meet his first arrival at their headquarters with quick but unmistakably lustful double-takes. If anything, Stowell resembles a Brian Dietzen with a bigger neck more than he does Harmon — and he occasionally acts like him, too, having to play the guy whose mouth is sometimes agape as he is educated into the ways of gruesome corpses and crime-solving. Stowell isn’t that much taller than Harmon in real life, but he seems to tower over every other cast member here, a beefy athlete thrust into the role of preternaturally intuitive agent. He’s so un-Harmon-like in most ways, in fact, that it almost makes “Origins” feel more like a reboot than a prequel.

But of course the idea is that Gibbs was a different guy in 1991. Even with the trauma freshly under his belt, he’s still a naif in the woods, as well as a seasoned sniper. So maybe we’ll get more used to him, or the producers’ idea of him, over time. There are moments when you can feel Stowell leaning out of his naturally booming voice and more into Harmon’s quieter rasp — which is important, since Harmon does provide narration for the series, mostly at the beginning and end of episodes, offering thoughts on a life spent largely solitarily. (The original actor also shows up very briefly at the beginning of the pilot, presumably in the present day, chopping wood.) It’s hard to know which way the series might take the character — whether it’ll establish how he developed the essential loneliness Harmon played, or as more of a beloved partner to Franks, or a bit of having it both ways.

The first four episodes that were made available for review for critics concentrate plotwise on the franchise’s usual procedural cases, the elaborate details of which are forgotten as quickly as they’re farmed out, while fans accept these as the delivery system for the character stuff they love. Epidode 4 deals with the protection of a young daughter of a soldier overseas, something that inevitably brings up Gibbs’ guilt issues for having been on duty when his family met its end. The real inevitably is that — before long, probably in this first season — the show will recount how Gibbs went to Mexico to covertly kill the man responsible for his wife and daughter’s deaths, an incident long ago established in “NCIS” lore as having happened around 1991. In fact, Gibbs’ father, Jackson Gibbs (a gentle Ralph Waite in the original series, an angrier Robert Taylor in this one), shows up just in order to warn his son not to go to Mexico and do that. He may as well tell him not to build an indoor boat.

Gibbs has a potential love interest in this new show, Lala Dominguez (Mariel Molino), whom Franks in one unfortunate exchange accuses of being “in heat.” The portent of Harmon’s narration suggests that she may be in trouble for hitching her wagon to Gibbs’ — as does the fact that her character never made it to “NCIS” proper. Molino is an appealing actor, so maybe Stowell will get some of the love scenes that Harmon always seemed a little wary of doing himself, before she becomes something else for Gibbs to feel guilty about. It’ll be nice if they don’t kill her off — if the lead character gets to experience some anguish just because he moved on sexually too soon, not because he got somebody murdered again.

But it’s clear who Gibbs’ real love interest in “Origins” will be: Mike Franks. It couldn’t happen to a nicer couple of ringers.

[f1]

What tyres will the teams and drivers have for the 2023 Hungarian Grand Prix?

Formula 1 heads to Budapest for another edition of the Hungarian Grand Prix, and Pirelli have announced which tyres they will be supplying the field with over the weekend. F1’s official tyre suppliers have brought the three softest compounds in their range to the Hungaroring, with teams able to choose from the C3 (hard tyre), C4 (medium tyre) and C5 (soft tyre). TECH TUESDAY: Breaking down the AlphaTauri upgrades that Ricciardo will race in Hungary However, in an aim to improve sustainability, Pirelli will this weekend trial a new qualifying format, which will see the teams given 11 sets of tyres instead of 13. This means that the teams will receive three sets of the white-marked hard tyres, four sets of the yellow-marked mediums, and just four sets of the red-marked softs. It is a change from what the drivers have become accustomed to, as usually they would be given two sets of hard tyres, three sets of mediums and eight sets of softs. If the weather stays dry this weekend, the new qualifying format for the Hungarian GP means drivers will have to use hard tyres in Q1, mediums in Q2 and softs in Q3. Pirelli’s tyre preview for the 2023 Hungarian Grand Prix “The Hungarian Grand Prix has become a classic event of the Formula 1 summer season, and as such the air and asphalt temperatures, which are usually very high, are the main features,” said Pirelli Motorsport Director Mario Isola. “This puts the drivers, cars and tyres to the test, not least because the twisting nature of the track does not allow anyone or anything to catch their breath. “There’s a fairly long pit straight, which provides the only real overtaking opportunity under braking into the first right-hand corner. Then there are 13 more corners – seven right-handers and six left-handers – on a circuit that is second only to Monte Carlo in terms of slowest average speed; to the extent that the cars use similar downforce settings to Monaco. IT’S RACE WEEK: 5 storylines we’re excited about ahead of the 2023 Hungarian Grand Prix “With so many slow corners, traction is one of the key factors for good performance and the biggest risk is tyre overheating. Despite being a permanent track, the Hungaroring is not used very often, and the asphalt conditions improve considerably during the weekend as the ideal racing line rubbers in. Pirelli will give the teams 11 sets of tyres instead of the usual 13 for this weekend’s Hungarian GP “Usually, this race is all about strategy and tyre degradation. This year we have opted for a trio of softer compounds compared to 2022, while a new tyre allocation for qualifying will be tried out for the first time, with the obligation to use just the hard in Q1, medium in Q2 and soft in Q3 if conditions stay dry. “Both these changes, at least on paper, should lead to a wider range of options, particularly in terms of strategy. The [Alternative Tyre Allocation] also saves two sets of dry tyres compared to the traditional format and it will be run again at the Italian Grand Prix in Monza. After that, the FIA, F1 and the teams will decide whether or not to adopt it for next season.” F1 NATION: Horner on Ricciardo’s return and Red Bull eye record-breaking win – it’s our Hungarian GP preview This weekend’s action in Hungary will also feature both Formula 2 and Formula 3. Pirelli have allocated the yellow medium and red soft tyre to the F2 teams, while the F3 drivers are set to get their hands on a new medium compound tyre. For more information about Pirelli’s F1 tyres, visit pirelli.com. via Formula 1 News https://www.formula1.com

[spainkitty]

Shout out to @sillyliterature for tagging me in things!! I love being tagged. Also, I really love and am obsessed with my Lanil (Surana) Lavellan oc. While about 80k of her as the Inquisitor has been written, I've gone down a rabbit hole of "What if Lanil had stayed in the Circles and joined the official Mage Rebellion instead?" so here we go 🤗 My amgry gorl~ living in my head rent free~ I might do this again from my handers/fenhanders fic because I know sillylit loves Anders as much as I do.

So basically this is like Find The Word, but with a phrase instead, or if you don’t have it, something with a similar vibe. The phrase is: This can't be real.

My phase: I don't quite have that in this fic, but I did have "You can't seriously [...]"

.

“You can’t seriously be going without me?” Lanil demanded. Fiona’s mouth twitched, her dark eyes amused. Lanil immediately looked away, scowling as heat suffused her cheeks.

“I am more than capable of travelling to Val Royeaux alone, although I will be taking a few mages with me, if that will assuage your concern,” Fiona said at last. “I do not want to seem as if I’m bringing a fight with me. Pardon me for saying so, Lanil, but you walk into a room like you’re walking into a fight.

“Can you blame me after this year?” Lanil muttered. “So, the Herald… are they really a qunari?”

“She is. I suppose the term is Tal-Vashoth, if the reports are true and she is not of the Qun. It may be impertinent to ask in the same breath I ask for aid,” Fiona said dryly.

Lanil smirked and shrugged. “I doubt a real Qun-loving qunari would let themself be called the Herald of Andraste.”

“I’m still not sure if this is a good idea,” Fiona said with a quiet sigh. “We’ve already seen what little the Chantry is able to do for us." She waved in the vague direction of… out there, where, yes, rebels that refused to join Redcliffe tore up the countryside, but also where roving packs of violent Templars wandered and cut down any mage or mage sympathizer, violent or not, they happened to see. “And both the Right and Left Hand of the Divine are heading this Inquisition.”

“The late Divine. But... Connor did say Arl Teagan told him that a former Templar is their Commander, too,” Lanil said with a grimace. Fiona’s lips pursed slightly, eyes narrowing. “A Templar from Kirkwall.”

Fiona pressed fingers to her temples. Lanil, as always, couldn’t help but be impressed by Fiona’s control. She herself would have at least cursed out loud by now. Lanil wondered if Fiona had always been able to do that, or was it something she made herself learn?

“Perhaps Linnea is right,” the Grand Enchanter whispered. Her eyes caught on the warrior statuette and she took it in hand again, rolling it between her palms. “How many more refugees have come this week?”

“About a dozen, and maybe three are actually capable of helping defend the keep. The only mages with any sort of combat skill are out in the fucking hills making it worse for everyone. We need to stick together or we’re all going to be hunted and cut down like nugs at this point,” Lanil snarled, lightning crackling at her fingertips.

“Or perhaps we’ll let you loose on the Templars and apostates alike so you might glower them into submission,” Fiona teased. Her voice was weary, quiet, but her dark eyes gleamed. Lanil glared at the nearest wall and crossed her arms over her chest. Her mouth was twitching, though, and her heart felt lighter. “The general opinion? Any increase in Tevinter sympathies?”

Lanil groaned and rolled her eyes upwards. She knew Fiona bringing up Linnea didn’t bode well. “Yes, all right, there are more people pushing for sending word to Tevinter, but it’s definitely not the majority. Linnea is two seconds away from running for the hills and going staff-happy on the countryside herself, don’t listen to her, Grand Enchanter. We don’t need them. They’re slavers.”

“And so many of us are elves…” Fiona frowned. “Our choices are a heretical Chantry organization and a mage-friendly slave nation. We’re not even sure either would help.”

“You need to get the Arl to contact the King,” Lanil said flatly. Fiona’s eyes flickered towards her and away. “He put us here. He promised us aid.”

“He promised us shelter. He did not promise us soldiers.”

“Then, ask for them! Fuck the Chantry, or Inquisition, whatever, and fuck the Vints, too. Do you think the King and Queen would give us Redcliffe just to let the Templars burst in and slaughter us!? The King obviously cares a little. Wynne was his advisor for years, Orzammar has its own Circle and the King and Queen refused to break the alliance with King Bhelen to support an Exalted March, and Anders…” Fiona raised a hand to stop her, but Lanil barrelled on anyway, “The Warden-Commander, King Alistair’s well-known friend and advisor, made Anders a Grey Warden. She protected him! Not only that, she’s an elf. They appointed an elf a Bann of the Denerim Alienage. They care about mages and elves both. The King is our best bet and you--”

“Surana, be silent.”

Lanil’s mouth snapped shut. It wasn’t often Fiona used that tone of voice, and it never failed to send prickles down Lanil’s spine. Instantaneous obedience. Silence fell hard between them and fire crackled in the fireplace. Fiona’s fingers curled around the statuette she held, enveloping it in her fist.

“Let us see how the Herald responds to my invitation first. I’ll return from Val Royeaux as swiftly as I am able,” Fiona said decisively. There was no arguing with that tone. Lanil inhaled and exhaled roughly through her nose. Fiona smiled and crossed the room. Gently, she cupped Lanil’s face in her hands, dark eyes tracing over Lanil’s features and meeting her stormy grey glare. “Mon petite tempête, you will take care of our people while I am away.”

“Of course,” she grumbled.

[bluewritesao3]

Guilt or a shitty job?

Summary: You join the mandalorian on a vaguely described job to the back water planet of Vispoc, that holds far more than originally anticipated leading to a very much needed history lesson and some emotion

Warnings: I think this gets angsty towards the end (I’ve never written angst before so bare with me pls) . talk of consumption of fogs, Talk of canon events like order 66 and the empire. Talk of Jedi stuff. 

Taglist: Let me know if you wanna get tagged. Send me and ask or DM

Word Count: 3.5k (this was meant to be a dabble)

Masterlist | Cross Posted on A03

Gif credit: @johnboyuga​

Kneeling on the floor of the Crest, you meditated in the quiet of the ship with the less then talkative Mandalorian hidden away in the cockpit and the miniature Grand Master Yoda safely tucked away in his hammock. The quiet offered you the peace you needed to gain a greater control over your thoughts and emotions. “Peace. Serenity, Harmony. We must master ourselves before we can hope to master the force.” You muttered your last masters teaching to yourself with closed eyes basing in the steady silence. 

As the ship jolted and rocked beneath your knees, you centred yourself more ignoring the shifting metal biting into your knees. When you’d found the right peace and began to slip into a trance, the heavy thunking of boots echoed through the ship throwing you out of your almost trance-like meditation. “How far out are we?” You asked still knelt on the floor with your back still turned to the shiny Mandalorian.

He passed by almost too quietly, looking less shiny in the artificial lighting of the ship, you heard the quiet noise of the baby’s little sleeping compartment opening. “A hour at least,” He said distorted by his helmet as  as he ducked down into that you originally assumed was the Mandalorian’s sleeping space and was now the child’s. “We’ll be landing in a few.” 

You sighed and pushed off of the floor, wiping your hands on the course weave of your trousers. Watching the Mandalorian always surprised you that a man covered in impenetrable mental could be so careful with a baby. The Mandalorian carefully fished the child from his little hammock and situated the groggy blue bundle into the crook of his arm. You smiled at the sight, the child had a strong connection to the first and had a tendency to project life events into it, you’d originally assumed that he was doing it intentionally while the Mandalorian was away. The more you asked the child about these events the more he would immediately perk up and begin babbling as if he was glad you asked. “What’s the planet like?” You asked out of simple curiosity because it wasn’t like there were any windows in the hull of the Crest and since taking off you didn’t know any details other than the Mandalorian found work. 

“Find out for yourself,” The Mandalorian muttered, you could see he was far more focused on the child than anything you had to say. “Going to need you for this one anyway,” He added retreating back up into the cockpit with the child in hand, you followed quietly without knowing why the Mandalorian was traveling to the planet of Vispoc but you’d agreed to help the Mandalorian with whatever work he had going it was mainly babysitting but you’d fallen in love with the little green gremlins upon first meeting.

Ascending into the cockpit, the pair of you worked like a well oiled machine so that the Mandalorian was able to take off and flue without any interference with the child. Staring out of the window, you stared at the slowly approaching planet. It looked as if a large part of it was made up of water spotted with green land masses and white spieling clouds obscured quite a bit of the water and land masses. “Looks safe enough. Don’t want repeat of Trask.” You muttered stroking one of the child’s large petal shaped ears. 

The child cooed quietly as he played with his favourite control level knob, slowly turning it in his little clawed hands. Out of the corner of your eye you could see the swirling clouds wind in tighter on themselves like an incoming hurricane. “Slightly observation. Might wanna avoid using the jetpack when we’re planet side.” You warned side-eyeing the stoic lump of beskar casually tilt his helmet and give the planet a brief second look before pushing a few buttons.

“Says it’s water-rich and windswept. Got no major populations or star ports.” The Mandalorian uttered helmet barely picking up on the words as he looked at one of the screens embedded into the ships control panel. “Gonna be a bumpy landing.” He added and you took it as a sign to buckle your seat belt and clung to the child, his little arms raised in excitement when a few alarms began sounding as the Mandalorian began the bumpy decent onto the planets surface.

The closer the Crest go to the planets surface the more you could feel the planets attainment to the force. At first you thought it was the child of the winds you were sensing but it felt older like an ‘accumulation of energy’ as your late master called it when somewhere or someone had a strong connection to the force. “Do you feel that too?” You asked the child and received a delighted squeal as the Crest was battered by the winds and thrown to the left. 

Glancing out of the window at the fast approaching planet, you began bracing for an impact just like the frozen tundra wasteland the new republic had chases you both into. The control panel flashed and alarms beeped in time with your pounding heard as the Mandalorian yanked on the ship’s controls, slapped various buttons and flipped switches with a level of blind accuracy you’d only seen from your fellow Padawan’s during group training or sparing practice.

 As the Crest touched down on the rusted abandoned hanger, a withered painted sign proudly pronounced the planet’s name, Vispoc, while another clearly announced that the planet had some affiliation with the republic before the Empire came to power. You breathed a sigh of relief and drew in the clam the sense of peace you’d tried meditating on hours ago. “You good?” The Mandalorian asked sounding a little breathless and gently smoothed down the child's wispy white hairs, who’d seemingly enjoyed himself, maybe it was the sudden flashed of the escape pod that had put you on edge or maybe it was something entirely different. “Looks abandoned.” The Mandalorian observed taking in the dilapidated hander and strips of torn fabric hanging off of stacked cargo boxes. 

You nodded shakily and began unbuckling yourself with the wild settled on your shoulder in preparation of you having to single handedly climb down the ladder into the cock-pit.  “I’ll feed him then we can go. Okay.” You told to the mandalorian and leaving him to do whatever was needed in the cock-pit before the three of you ventured out into the cold of the planet. As you began your decent into the hull of the ship the child began to gargle a little at the mention of being fed. “Stars you’re a hungry thing aren’t you.” You commented as your feet touched the grated metal in the full. 

Settling the child on top of the largest cargo crate as you set about mashing up one of the ration bars and rehydrating it with a little water from a flask. Ration bars and recycled water was not a good combination and you could attest to it seeing as it was the only part of your diet for at least a year after the purge. While you worked the child babbled and made grabby hand towards the small tin rectangle you held in your hands even though he was sending images of a particular frog with blue and black stripes he’d probably seen before you arrived through his connection in the force. “Sorry bud. We don’t have any blue and black striped frogs or any amphibians at all.” You joked and offered him a spoon of mushed up, rehydrated ration bar, he took the first spoonful without an issue but after the second and third you think he’d began to realise that it wasn’t a froggy mush. 

He quietly grumbled aloud to himself in his own baby garble and frowned as a new spoon of ration bar mush was presented to him. “Listen, maybe I can convince your Dad you get some froggy pets.” You promised as you tried to sooth him by motioning towards where the Mandalorian was still hauled up doing post flight checks. “Then you can hunt ‘em yourself.” You added hopefully appearing the small grumpy child and offered the spoon again. 

As if he’d actually considered it the child made a noise of agreement and began wolfing down every spoon of ration bar mush fed to him. “Y/N, you really shouldn’t promise him such things.” The mandalorian’s modulated voice came out of nowhere in true Mandalorian fashion causing the baby to immediately perk up as if he’d been given a stim-canister. “I have too many pets as it is.” The Mandalorian added as he pulled open the locked metal cupboard where he kept all his weaponry and began to load himself up as the Crest’s ram opened up with a mechanical whirling. 

Depositing the child into his little cloth bag, “This looks questionable at best.” You muttered taking in the silvers of landscape revealed to you by the slow opening of the Crest’s ramp. Standing at the mouth of the ship, you slowly scanned the landscape, the hanger the Mandalorian had parked in seemed derelict from years of abandonment and seemed perfect for a smugglers crew to hide some coveted cargo. Noticing the out-cropping of a large temple-like structure was peaking out from behind the large mountain looming in the foreground. 

“Here,” The Mandalorian said holding out the hilt of your Lightsaber, the cold sunlight glinted off of the dull weathered durasteel illuminating some of the symbols carved int other space between the emitter and the switch. “Might need it.” He nodded to the Lightsaber he’d once referred to a laser sword.

Reaching for the long metal hilt was a lot harder than you originally anticipated. ‘This weapon is your life.’ Your late asters words echoed in your head. Feeling the Mandalorian’s visor trained on you was almost burning its T-shape into your face. With a shaky hand, you firmly grasped the all to familiar leather wrapped hilt of your lightsaber and just held it trying to become comfortable with its weight again. It’d been the same as the one you’d built when you’d been selected as a Padawan and taken part in the gathering on Ilum. You were sure your hesitation was as clear as Vispoc’s oceans. “If my master could see me now. Hesitant. They’d be so disappointed in me.” You explained shakily, your late master never got ashamed or angry when you put a foot wrong or hesitated but they were always disappointed when something sailed or went wrong. As you hooked it onto your repurposed belt and gun holster, the child snorted as if he was getting impatient with all the waiting around.

Descending the ships ramp, the weight of the baby on your left felt like nothing compared to the history of the weapon hanging on your belt rhythmically bouncing as you walked. With the Mandalorian at your side, the both of you approached the village at a slow speed, only stopping when the winds picked up significantly and blew particularly hard. The dark rock bit into the palms of your hands as you shuffled along the mountain trail, hand on the wall searching for something to steady yourself when the winds blew. Farther up the trail the Mandalorian waited quietly but impatient, you could see where the child’d picked it up from, as if the winds didn’t bother him in the slightest and you was convinced that it was all the beskar that was weighing him down. 

With your free hand holding the child’s side bag closer to your body, you had a much clearer view of the temple-like building that was peaking out from behind the mountain. Two large stone pillars flanked a set of double doors. Above the doors harsh winds swirled around one another like a brewing hurricane, in front of it was a raised dais with set stair leading down to what you assumed was the ground. Feeling the force trying to pull you in the direction of the temple, you brought up your shield again forcing the pull to detach itself from your being. “That part of me is too scared to even think about going there. Just yet.” You muttered into the wind and gently patted your Lightsaber as if you was trying to reassure yourself that you’d have to work up the courage to visit a temple again before became part of the living force. 

Once on the move again the unlikely pair came to the mouth of a mountain-side village. A small handful of the homes seemed to be build from cylindrical walls and topped with dome roofs, the whole place felt restless with the scrapes of brightly painted fabric banners whipped around in the significantly more gentle wind. Other homes were built in close quarters with one another jutting out slightly from the sides of the mountain, they followed the natural lines of the paths and the mountain faces. “What or who are we looking for, Mandalorian? ‘Cause this place looks abandoned.” You asked glancing around the village and grimaced when you caught sight of the warning on the wall signed with a blood red imperial symbol. 

The mandalorian sighed deeply as if he knew the whole trip was a bust. “He said it was in the village. Maybe there’s multiple villages.” He cursed clearly frustrated as you allowed yourself to slump down onto an outcrop of stone that seemed like a good place to sit.

“I doubt whatever you’re looking for is still here, Mandalorian.” You muttered promptly gesturing to the bright white grimy sighs screwed to the side of one of the cylindrical homes. It clearly stated that the village now belonged to the empire and all the occupants were in evacuate immediately or be arrested. “No doubt all the villages are under Imperial hold regardless of size.” You added  gently offering the baby some of the jerky you kept in one of the bouches tied to your bed. 

“Come one we’ll try the next on.” Was all the Mandalorian said before speedily continuing down the trail. 

Watching the Mandalorian’s gate, You could see the that everything was beginning to weigh on him because it was much long ago that he’d found out he was raised by religious zealots and you’d honestly contemplated leaving there and then given the Jedi’s history with that particular groups of Mandalorian’s. Even if you’d spent almost 3 decades in hiding the teachings of your late master wouldn’t relent, emotions only clouded one’s judgement. 

Hours down the line, you and the Mandalorian had traded off the task of carrying the child. The mandalorian now had the child’s side bag slung safely across his body with the child filling the safe space between both you and him. 

The pair had visited multiple villages across the planet, even come across a largely developed town that yielded little to no information about whatever if was the Mandalorian was looking for. You suspected that whatever he’d been tasked the retrieve was inside of the temple-like building you’d seen when visiting the first village. The force connection was only growing stronger and carried whispers with them, they gently scabbed the very edges of the shield you had built after feeling it at its strongest for the first time. The child clearly wasn’t as effected as you were, maybe it was because he hadn’t had as much training, you weren’t sure but it worried you given that the child was 50 and just about had a grasp on lifting things.

Sitting in the cantina listening to the quiet chatter and howling winds, you carefully fed the baby spoonful after spoonful of bone broth. Subtly trying to watch the Mandalorian out of you peripheral you watched him fidget and continuously open and close his fist almost like he was waiting for someone, antsy was the word your brain suppled you with. “What exactly is it we’re looking for?” You asked gently wiping away any spilt broth from the child’s face. Waiting patiently, you took a sip of the water from the cup in front of you and watched the Mandalorian silt his helmet as if he was contemplating telling you what exactly they were doing on this windy hellhole. “You said you’d might need me. That implies that it’s something Jedi related.” You surmised slowly piecing together the small fragments of information you’d collected on the journey from one village to the next. 

“It’s Jedi. I just don’t know where to look.” The Mandalorian huffed laying his hand flat on the table. “I’m open to suggestion,” He added allowing his shoulders to drop a little like he was relieved to share the job with you. “The Jedi are a mystery at most. Why doesn’t anyone know anything?” He asked sounding completely lost and a small part of you was itching to teach someone about the ways of the Jedi but the much larger part of you that was acting purely on instinct screamed that revealing such information would only get more killed. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slowly began drawing circles on the table avoiding the black t-visor staring straight at you unrelenting. “Because we’ve been wiped from history,” You began to explain hearing the child whine a little but you pushed on. “Our temples had fallen into disrepair or burned to the ground. The Empire sentenced us to death and denied a trial.” You explained farther remembering all the time you’d spent running and begging for your life, all those you’d cut through just to survive to see the next sun rise. 

Without seeing the Mandalorian’s face, you couldn’t tell what expression he held, sometimes you were envious of the emotionlessness the armour offered him but he sat silently and listened as you rambled. Casting a quick glance around the cantina because anyone worth their information knew that cantina walls had ears. Always. “As the Republic fell the Empire rose and wiped us away with it. Anyone that’s still left knows better than the out themselves.” Memories of the great purge flashed across your memory, the stand-off between your late master and the commander and the clones chasing you across the length of the republican cruiser. It’d be enough to put any 12 year old into hiding and to never some out again. “Our relics became decoration and prices to be won. Our Lightsaber’s were another’s trophy.” You babbled nervously as you ignored the small green hand of the child clinging to your sleeve or the forced wave of calm being pushed onto you by the child. 

The Mandalorian tilted his head noting that he was listening and absorbing all the information you were providing him with, the way he stared at you when you finished simply said ‘but why?’ and in all honesty you couldn’t give him an answer. “The thing I’m being paid to find. Theres a possibility that it’s Jedi.” He explained and you’d never felt such a strong urge to fling someone across the cantina and through your blooming anger, you nodded in understanding that the Mandalorian needed to make money some how and if it wasn’t chasing bail jumpers or debts half ways across the galaxy it had to be something Jedi related. Maybe this was the biggest fuck you to the Jedi from the Mandalorian’s. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have taken the job.” He added guilt dripping from the words even if they were mechanical. 

“Is that why you gave me my saber back,” You began planting elbows on the table quietly seething with something akin to anger. “Out of guilt for taking the job?” You questioned staring directly into the black abyss of the Mandalorian’s t-visor.  “Be clear with me Mandalorian. Was it guilt.” You demanded anger flaring a little, knowing full well that the Mandalorian had been adamant on him keeping your Lightsaber locked up out of harms way or at least till he trusted you to carry it and keep it out of the kids reach. 

“We should go.” was all the Mandalorian said as he rose from his seat, took the child and excited the cantina to go back out into the drab wind-swept landscape leaving you sitting alone at the table looking for the peace you’d been able to find before landing. 

Gingerly resting a hand on the hilt off your Lightsaber and glanced around wondering if anyone had noticed it on your person. “Memories of an old friend.” You whispered dropping the shield and walking out of the cantina, the Mandalorian stood of to the side holding hands with the smaller version Grand Master Yoda. The pull of the force called to you in a way that you’d never experienced since the gathering on Ilum and being on the surface of coruscant. “If we’re going to a temple. Stay close and ignore the whispers.” You warned and set of in the direction of the temple wishing the spirits there were at least laid the rest and not running rampant through the temple. 

[thelefthandersdilemma]

Dining with Hands with Muslims

I didn’t always think about my handedness. Being left-handed means being subjected to a series of minor inconveniences that affects the fabric of everyday life. But it’s mostly invisible. There are times, though, when situations force me to confront my handedness. Like when someone sees me writing and they feel compelled to point out that I’m left-handed. Or when my handedness clashes with another’s culture and deep-seated beliefs. Like in this story I’m about to tell you. Bear with me here, this will be long—mostly because I want the world to meet the man behind the most absurd(?) extraordinary(?) experiences of my life.

Two of my friends and I were flying to India via Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Because it was a cheap flight, there was a 6-hour gap between our arrival in Malaysia and our flight to India. BUT instead of checking in early like responsible young adults, we hung back and waited at the last minute to check in. Like the idiots that we were.

At this point, I must note that Filipinos need a visa to travel to India. You could either get a visa beforehand or get one upon arrival. It’s a long story, but my friends got a visa beforehand while I opted to get a visa-on-arrival. In hindsight, I was the one idiot here.

We took our sweet time and arrived at the check-in counter with only 15 minutes before the flight took off. The girl at the counter looked at my visa-on-arrival papers and paused. She called to her supervisor, shuffled my papers around, and talked between themselves. Then the supervisor looked at me and said, ‘You can’t take this flight’.

What.

‘You don’t have a hotel booking. You need a hotel booking for your visa.’ He went on to explain that if I get denied a visa, the airline would have to shoulder the costs of my flight back to Malaysia. And then I’d have to book a flight back to India. It was too much trouble for everyone involved. He kept looking at his watch.

“But... But...”

‘Look, there’s a computer shop there.’ He points at a shop directly behind us. Does this happen often enough that it actually made sense to put a computer shop right by the check-in counter? ‘Run to that shop, book a hotel, and print it. The flight is in 10 minutes. Go go go!’

So we ran. I rushed to book a hotel, any hotel. But the supervisor burst into the shop and called out desperately, ‘they can’t wait anymore the plane is about to leave!’ Just as I received my booking confirmation.

‘I’m printing it out!’ I shouted just as desperately, watching him herding my two friends to an attendant.

‘We’re not leaving without her!’ My other friend cried out as the escort took them.

‘If you stay here, you’ll all have to buy new flights!’ We were backpacking. I guess we looked the part.

Running, my friend looked back at him and hollered, ‘Take care of her!!!’

‘I will!’, he hollered back.

Jesus Christ. Was I in a movie? It wouldn’t have been more absurd to me if my friend turned into a pillar of salt. But my disbelief waned quickly. I went back to the shop and had my booking printed. It was about 10pm. At least I was in Kuala Lumpur, right? There was bound to be a hotel just a stone’s throw away from here. I walked out of the shop to find the supe standing there, waiting for me. There was no one else to turn to. He took me back to the counter to buy the earliest flight to India. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon the next day.

‘Are there any buses or cabs that could take me to the nearest hotel?’, I asked. Apparently, buses only ran until 10pm. And we were not in Kuala Lumpur. Kuala Lumpur was 45km away. And no taxi would take me there at this hour. And he himself would take me to the nearest hotel. The movie in my head was turning into a thriller real quick.

To prove he was trustworthy, he gave me his business card. Mr. X Nizam. 100% certified employee of Air Asia. Nothing in there about whether or not he liked to kidnap stranded backpackers on the side.

We passed by the bus station and there were people lined up to board it. I don’t remember now if I asked him where those buses were going and why I couldn’t ride those. I just blindly followed this guy to a dark parking lot, gave him my bag, which he dumped into his trunk, and then sat on the passenger seat. I didn’t even realize he had a ‘talking car’.

‘Door unlocked. Door open. Door closed. Door locked.’ It announced ominously, in what I could now only describe as a Hello Kitty voice.

All the blood was draining out of my head as we drove farther and farther from the airport. I had no Internet, my cellphone battery was dying, and I didn’t have the appropriate plug adapter for Malaysia. The road was dark and the ride was long. I had one hand on the door latch and the other on the seatbelt latch. Where was he taking me? To his house? To a dingy motel room?

Then a building with blue neon signage came into view. A hotel! An actual, not-shady-looking hotel! But why was he going in with me? He insisted on carrying my bag and talking to the clerk. He then escorted me to an upper floor. Oh god, what if this was a secret human trafficking ring? He opened the door to a room, dropped my bag inside, and gave me the key. Did I have everything I needed, he asked. I told him about my charger situation. (WHY!)

But he did not cross the threshold. He stayed right outside the door as he bid good night and promised to come by the next morning.

He arrived at exactly 8am the next morning with a plug adapter in hand. We had plenty of time ‘til the flight—he thought he’d take me to a traditional Muslim breakfast and a tour of KL while we waited. By this time, I was 90% convinced that he was not a human trafficking crime lord.

LEFT-HANDER CONTENT STARTS HERE

He took me to a Muslim family eatery. The food choices were all burning red with spice—I couldn’t tell them apart! When I sat on a table with my plate, I immediately got confused.

‘Why aren’t you starting?’ He asked.

‘Where can I get utensils?’

He let out a chuckle and called to a staff, who chuckled along with him. The staff excused herself and went to the kitchen and prepared some utensils for me. ‘We don’t eat with utensils here’, he explained.

‘Oh, are we eating with our hands? I’m sorry, it’s fine! I can do it. I’m a Filipino. I know how to eat with my hands!’ I quickly dipped my left hand in the washing bowl and proceeded to grab some food from my plate.

‘Nooooo!’ He exclaimed, an unmistakable expression of disgust on his face.

‘What?’

‘You don’t eat with your left hand!’

‘Why?’

He lowered his voice in a whisper, ‘that’s what you use to clean your butt when you poo...’

Should I have told him that I was left-handed? That I actually use my right hand to clean my butt? I didn’t. If I did, he’d probably be even more disgusted. Probably lose his appetite too. So I took a deep breath and used my right hand instead. Having breached a major law of hand-eating conduct, he decided to observe as I flailed about with my right hand.

‘You eat like a 5-year old’, he concluded. ‘That’s how I ate when I was 5, before my mom taught me how to eat properly.’

‘You mean there are rules?’ The tide has certainly changed now but during these times and as I was growing up, eating with your hands was looked down upon, especially among the upper-middle class. You definitely won’t see people doing it in restaurants. Even in small family eateries like the one we were in, it would be pretty rare to see someone using their hands to eat. Some people wouldn’t even admit to knowing how to do it. This is of course rooted in our colonial past. In our history class, we were taught that one of the “good things” our colonizers “gave us” were the spoon and fork (and occasionally the knife).

To discover that hand-eating actually has a dignified, deeply-rooted tradition was a revelation to me. It definitely gave me a sense of pride in my cultural identity—an identity that centuries of colonial oppression tried to erase.

’You have to teach me!’ It was one of the most educational dining experiences of my life. One that I will now teach anyone bored enough to read this long-ass post.

Mr X Nizam’s Lessons on Dining with your Hands

Use only one hand*. Your right hand. Because your left hand is “dirty”. X_X

Rest your left arm at the edge of the table across your chest. Place your right elbow on the table and keep it there. Don’t lift it. Only your forearm should move at an angle to reach the food.

If you’re eating meat, pull a small, bite-sized chunk of meat with your fingers. Then pinch some rice and push them in to a small, bite-sized clump at your fingertips.

Use your thumb to push the food into your mouth.

Keep your hands clean. Keep your food on your fingers—absolutely no food should reach your palms. Anything you put on your fingers should go to your mouth.

Remember I mentioned the food being full of spices? Well, it did a number on both of us and we had to run back to the hotel to, erm, relieve ourselves. Don’t you just hate it when you meet someone through strange circumstances and then suddenly you need to drop big noisy ones just hours into knowing each other? I just sat there, enduring the noise he was obviously hearing from the other side of the room. And when I was done, I had to stop, pause, and reflect. Not because I just dropped a deuce noisy enough to wake the entire hotel, but because I now faced a dilemma. A LEFT HANDER’S DILEMMA. *dun-dun*

After what I’ve learned about dining with your hands and the left hand’s place in its etiquette, was I really going to wash myself with my right hand? What if we eat with our hands again for lunch? How would that make me feel then? But I couldn’t use my left hand. I had no idea how to do it. As far as I know, it was always bidet on the left and cleaning on the right. So I had to what was “right” for me. Heh. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and washed with my right hand.

---

*There are some types of food where you’re allowed to use both hands, but there are rules about it. Sadly I can’t remember them anymore. :(

[pinkfadespirit]

“We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair” from the prompts? 💖

Thank you for sending this in! I’m sorry took me so long to get around to finishing it. Here’s some fluffy Handers nonsense that mostly fits the prompt. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Garrett wakes feeling a little like Parsley might have fallen asleep on top of his head last night. He knows it’s probably not the case because—well, mostly because he remembers that there had been drinking last night but also because there are probably a lot more comfortable places for a full-grown mabari to sleep in the house and he likes to think that Parsley has some sense. 

So the headache is most likely because of the party, which hadn’t really been meant to be a party but sort of ended up that way after dinner became drinks and Wicked Grace and that became more drinks and lounging by the fire, listening to Orana play her lute. And after that it’s sort of a blur but it’s not hard to imagine that it ended with none of them in any state to walk back to their own corners of Kirkwall and Garrett inviting them to stay. 

It certainly would explain the feeling of warmth at his side and the slow steady sound of breathing from someone who is definitely not Parsley on the pillow beside him. Garrett turns his head and is met with the sight of golden hair and pale freckled skin. He sucks in a breath as he tries to remember inviting Anders into his bed last night. It’s all still sort of foggy but he has to admit it does sound like something he would do. 

He has a little feel about and affirms that, yes, he is still wearing clothes. It’s actually a relief because while he may have given some thought to certain activities involving Anders and varying degrees of nudity, if anything like that ever were to happen, Garrett thinks that’s something he’d prefer to remember. 

He looks into the face of the sleeping man beside him and slowly it starts to come back to him: Anders accompanying him to his room, putting him to bed and bringing him a cup of water. He’d talked about leaving then and Garrett had asked him to stay. No—he’d pleaded with him to stay. Made up all sorts of excuses for why the walk back to Darktown was inadvisable at this hour and everyone else was staying anyway and look, the bed is plenty big enough for both of them. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise,” he recalls saying and nearly groans at the memory, thinking now that if Anders hadn’t been feeling awkward before then Garrett’s complete lack of subtlety had probably done the trick. 

He remembers how Anders’ face had only just been visible in the low firelight but it had been enough to make out the uncertainty there. Garrett can hardly believe it but somehow he’d looked tempted. Being Anders, however, he’d had to hold himself back. And Garrett—being drunk—had refused to let him.  

“I’d just feel better knowing you were safe,” Garrett had told him.

Anders had rolled his eyes. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, you know,” he had said back. But he’d also smiled and Garrett had just grinned in response because he knew then that he had him.

Soon after that he must have fallen asleep because he doesn’t remember much else. Just the triumphant feeling at seeing Anders sigh and climb into bed with him. He’d left his coat and boots downstairs but kept the rest of his clothes on as he joined Garrett beneath the heavy blankets. From what he can remember of it now, he can’t believe Anders had indulged him. Garrett had been drunk but Anders hadn’t had that excuse. He must just be that persuasive. 

Looking at him now, Garrett’s never seen him looking so comfortable, his face relaxed and his hair mussed up from sleep, half out of its ponytail, golden strands falling haphazardly about his sleeping face. He has the blanket pulled up to his chin, one hand clutched around it. Garrett doesn’t quite want to look away but his head still aches and his mouth is dry. The call of the cup of water Anders left out for him the night before is more alluring even than the sight of Anders sleeping next to him. Which is saying something, really. He’s thought about this, Anders—specifically, sharing a bed with him—a lot over the few years he’s known him. Long enough to have stopped expecting it would ever actually happen.

They’re just friends after all. But sometimes friends might share a bed if it’s convenient to do so. 

Garrett stifles a sigh and pushes himself up just far enough to reach the cup of water to soothe his parched throat. He gulps down half of the contents then returns the cup to its place on the bedside table just in time to notice Anders stirring, warm amber eyes blinking open and slowly coming to focus on Garrett as he settles back down beside him.

“Good morning,” says Garrett, more brightly than he feels. But it never hurts to be friendly. Since they’re friends and all, sharing a bed out of convenience because friends do that sometimes. Not like one has been secretly pining over the other for three years without ever really knowing where they stand because sometimes there’s been flirting but it always seems to end with the other pulling away and it’s just hard to know what it really means when that keeps happening. 

Besides friendship, that is. Friendship seems like a solid bet. That’s what Garrett keeps telling himself.

Anders is really cute in the morning, Garrett thinks, with his mussed up hair and his eyes struggling to open all the way. The little croak in his voice as he replies, “Morning.”

Garrett rolls over onto his side to smile at him. He can’t really help it. It feels like a rare opportunity to observe this sleepy morning Anders, one he shouldn’t waste, hangover or no hangover. He wonders if Anders will stay for breakfast. He hopes so.

“What is it?” mumbles Anders eyeing Garrett’s smile. 

“Nothing.” Garrett keeps grinning. “Just… your hair.” Then he can’t help himself, he reaches over and smooths a few of the dark blond strands out of his face and that seems to wake him up. Anders’ face turns slightly pink. Garrett pulls his hand back. “Sorry.”

“It’s… okay,” Anders tells him. He looks at Garrett properly now, wearing this little ironic smile. “You’re awfully chipper in the morning. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Garrett laughs. “I’m never drinking again.”

Anders smirks back at him. “I believe you. Come here…” He reaches out to touch his fingers to the side of Garrett’s face. Then he smooths his thumb over his brow, leaving a trail of cool soothing magic in its wake.

“That feels nice,” Garrett murmurs. 

“That’s the idea.”

His eyes flutter closed as Anders pushes fingers back into his hair, indulging him in a way that feels maybe a little bit more than friendly but Garrett thinks he probably shouldn’t push his luck by trying to read into it.

“Feel better?”

Garrett nods. He opens his eyes and his breath catches to find Anders watching him with a warm look on his face that can only be described as tender. He takes his hand back and Garrett lets out a little whine at the loss of the touch. 

Anders’ eyes are alight with amusement. “If you had your way I think I’d be staying here pampering you all day.”

“Is that an offer?”

Anders shakes his head against the pillow, smiling. “You’re like a puppy.”

“Fluffy and loveable?”

“Needy.”

“What?” Garrett laughs. “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you like animals.”

“I like cats.”

“It’s all the same thing really.”

“It’s really not,” Anders says dryly but the look in his eyes is fond. He reaches out and resumes lightly brushing his fingers through Garrett’s hair. “I’ll make an exception for you.”

Garrett sighs in contentment and shuffles in closer. 

It’s strange. He thought it would be awkward but it’s not. Now Anders is awake, it just feels… natural. Like they might have woken up this way a hundred times before. “We should do this more often,” Garrett says, the thought tumbling from his lips before he has a chance to consider the wisdom of saying it aloud. 

Anders surprises him by answering, “Hmm… maybe we should.”

Garrett smiles hopefully at him. He’d sort of expected Anders to start pulling away by now because that’s what usually happens. But instead he’s just peering back at him looking thoughtful and happy in a way that Garrett wishes he would look more often. He thinks there’s a good chance he’s looking back in the very same way. And he thinks that maybe sometimes people will tell themselves that they’re going to sleep in the same bed because they’re friends and it’s convenient but that might not really be the reason for it at all. There could be a lot of reasons, not all of them to do with it being dangerous to walk home alone at night. It could be because you just really love another person’s company. So much that you don’t want to think of them going to sleep every night in some dingy old clinic in the undercity when they could come back here and wake up with you each morning and sleep close by your side every night. Sometimes you just want all the time with that person you can get. And sometimes that’s a bit like friendship but sometimes it might be something a little bit more. 

That’s something Garrett thinks he’d really like to try out with Anders. Just to see if he might be right. But he’s not quite sure how to say all that. It’s an awful lot of words for something that seems very simple when he’s looking into Anders’ eyes and feeling the touch of his fingertip light against the curve of his ear. And there are simpler ways of asking. 

When Garrett kisses Anders it feels just as easy, just as natural as all the rest. Anders doesn’t pull away but moves closer instead. Their movements are soft and lazy in the quiet early morning and it feels like a simple answer to that very simple question. Garrett kisses him, asking will you stay? and Anders pulls him closer and tells him yes.  

[aria-i-adagio]

Did either of them try to resist their feelings? Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear? What are their primary love languages? Who’s the better cook? (for Handers!) - the-iron-orchid

Thank you, @the-iron-orchid!

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?

Oh, Anders is definitely the one whispering the inappropriate things in Hawke’s ear. He is the id of this relationship after all.

Not that Hawke is complaining.

What are their primary love languages?

I always have to stop and look up the whole love languages thing. Kinda like enneagram numbers. Cultivating a deliberate agnosis for my own nefarious reasons.

Anders and Adrian are both touch starved cuddlebugs, and Adrian rates very high on giving acts of service.

[Realizing that all my OCs/canon characters I project too much onto are touch starved cuddlebugs... hmm... anyone want to come snuggle and let me make you delicious food and baked goods? I am a very good cook.]

Who’s the better cook?

I - in my infinite wisdom and mercy as a writer - determined that fugitive Anders needed a hobby, and I gave him a cookbook to play around with while in hiding. As of the present moment in my personal little world state, our recovering ascetic is well on his way to becoming a decent, if somewhat rustic, chef. He has also perfected moonshine and if Hawke ever gets his chickens, Anders is definitely going to start aging the stuff

Adrian can scramble eggs and make coffee. But he has to make coffee before trying to toast bread, or he burns it.

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Did either of them try to resist their feelings? No, of course not, not for three years of Isabela having to watch them pining. Oh no. Definitely not.

This is begging me to just post the first chapter of Risk. The truly naughty bits are in chapter two and you’ll have to go to the AO3 for those. And then tell me if I should finish futzing with the half-drafted and half daft chapter three.

---

Hawke doesn't know where Varric found this particular tabletop game. Not that it matters, he's thoroughly enjoying the premise of guiding pewter toy soldiers through taking over one region of Thedas at a time. Isabela seems less enchanted, complaining that the rules are attached against her because if she just had a navy, and isn't it cheating that Hawke and Anders have formed a truce with each other to wipe her off the map.

Varric laughs and shrugs off her complaint. "Strategy is strategy."

"What truce?" Adrian smiles innocently enough; although under the table, Anders' left hand has been gradually moving up his thigh. "We haven't discussed anything with each other."

"Nope, nothing." Anders drinks from his third - or fourth pint of beer - Justice must be giving him the night off from the no drunkenness rule. That happens sometimes, when Hawke is lucky "Just roll the dice, 'Bela."

"Sure, boys, no special code you're tapping out with your feet ?" She's down to two units in a region Hawke is attacking with ten. Anders has the region on the other side of hers and wore her down on his prior turn, stopping without taking the region or overly weakening his own position.

Varric crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "I'm planning to enjoy what happens when they have to turn on each other."

"Oh yes." Isabela picks up her dice and shakes them in her hand. "Who will come out on top? A scintillating question. Drat!" Her roll turns up snake eyes to Hawke's mediocre four, three, and two. "Anders, if I find out you've cursed these dice -"

"We're not even playing for money, 'Bela."

"Yeah, yeah -" She clears her soldiers from the region. "Just honor. It's all yours, sweetling."

"You've still got half of Orlais and the Frostback Basin. You're hardly out."

She smirks and gestures to one of the barmaids for another pitcher. "Aye, and the longer I keep those the longer it's going to take for you two to solve that question of who's going to be on top."

Merrill is barely hanging on to Seheron and a random province in Tevinter. "Oh, I think Anders has the stronger position, he's basically got Hawke's armies surrounded."

Anders hides a blush behind another drink. Varric snorts and Isabela sighs. "Kitten, that's not quite what we're talking about. And you -" She points a finger at Anders like she's reprimanding a sailor. "Are hardly a blushing virgin."

Hawke just shifts his weight a bit, nudging Anders' thigh with his knee. Keep going. He can't actually move his own hand quick enough under the table to slide Anders' fingers further around and up without Isabela noticing. But she's going to give them grief no matter what.

"Well, what are you talking about then?"

"The eventual conclusion to a most drawn out case of two idiots pining after each other."

"What does that have to do with who wins the game?"

"It's a metaphor, Daisy. Not a very good one."

"Does it have something to do with sex? I'm always missing the ones that have to do with sex."

Anders chokes on his beer. Hawke pats his back, then leaves his hand there just above his belt. The Hanged Man is warm tonight, the feathery jacket is hanging on the wall, and Hawke can feel Anders' spine through the written out fabric of his shirt.

"I should make a hand where I can see 'em rule," Isabela grouses. "No idea what little card tricks you boys are up to over there."

"What?" Hawke walks his fingers up Anders' back and wonders how much longer he can stand Anders' fingers tracing spirals over the inside of his thigh before he just throws the game, grabs Anders' by the collar and kisses and/or shakes him until he's forgotten whatever protests he prepared about this not being a good idea, Anders is a dangerous person to be with, Hawke doesn't really know him, et cetera, et cetera. "I would never try to cheat. At least, not with you."

Merrill actually wins the game after patiently building up a massive number of armies in Seheron and sweeping through all of Thedas in a single turn. Never forget to keep an eye on the quiet ones. She smiles prettily as Varric and Hawke start picking up the pieces of the game, and then asks Isabela again if she'll explain the metaphor.

Isabela lays her head down on the table with a groan. "I need more alcohol for this."

Varric, being Varric, chuckles and then enables, ordering another two pitchers for the table.

Hawke gives up any pretense of coyness during Isabela's tutoring session and sits sideways on the bench with his back against the wall and his legs over Anders' lap, giggling as Isabela makes increasingly vulgar gestures with her hands and then steals Varric's notebook and ink to improvise illustrations. She's not a very good artist.

Merrill's wide eyes get wider. "Oh, oh. But -" She blinks rapidly. "What if it's two women?"

"Well, it's kind of a loose metaphor anyway, to be entirely honest." Isabela changes around how she's holding her hands again. "You see not everything comes down to insertions."

"Andraste's knicker weasels, 'Bela!"

"Knickers can be involved or not. Weasels, well, at least the animal type are less common. Now, the Chantry only talks about Andraste's husbands, but I heard this one -"

"You're going to confuse her even more." Anders moves Hawke's legs out of his lap and leans over the table. "It's simple Merrill. In sex, some people really prefer to get, some people really prefer to give, and most people are somewhere in the middle and like doing a bit both. And then you have Isabela, who likes to tease."

"Guilty as charged. In bed and out."

"What does that have to do with a board game though?"

Hawke laughs. Anders covers his face with both hands. "Oh, Maker. I'm done here. And this is as much of an answer as you're getting, 'Bela." He turns toward Hawke, who isn't expecting and had only cautiously been hoping to be grabbed by the shoulders and kissed on the mouth and thus, very nearly loses his balance when he is. He's quick enough to topple toward Anders instead of over the table, steading himself with hands at Anders' skinny waist, and kissing him back before the moment can be lost.

"Finally!" Isabela applauds. "I thought I was going to have to spend the night with Hawke, which would be terribly awkward as he doesn't like women."

Hawke raises a middle finger in her general direction and earns a delighted cackle.

"But Hawke spends a lot of time with you, and me, and even Aveline. We're women?"

Varric pours more beer for himself and Merrill. "That's, um, not at all what she means, Daisy."

Anders rolls his eyes. He stands up and pulls Hawke with him. "Your place or mine is a stupid question, isn't it?"

"A very stupid question." Hawke grabs their jackets off the wall. Honestly, right now, either would do, but it's about the same distance and Hawke has a significantly nice bed. If they make it that far.

"I expect a full report in the morning, Hawke," Isabela shouts as they're walking out. "Might have bets riding on it."

"Fuck you, 'Bela." Hawke says with a glance back over his shoulder and a broad smile. He's closer to amused than annoyed. She had quite effectively forced Anders' hand in the little game he and Hawke had been playing for weeks. Maybe overdone it, but she'd done it. Isabela winks and flashes him two thumbs up before making a 'get going now' gesture.

"No, you won't. Don't forget the electricity thing."

"The electricity thing? Is that another metaphor?"

"Goodnight, Merrill."

[denimbex1986]

“You guys were gonna be the first MCU show...it ended up being WandaVision...Did you guys follow that show? Did you follow that hype? Was there any part of you that was like ‘Damn, we gotta follow that now’?”

Anthony: “Not at all. Our show is very different. I think it was great that WandaVision actually went first because it set up the audience’s ideas of what this Marvel Cinematic Universe is going be on the streamer. It’s very different because WandaVision was a completely different idea of a Marvel show. So, you know, it was great that they went first, but our show is so different; Sebastian and I are very different than Elizabeth and Paul.”

Kari: “The bar is high, obviously. I’m thrilled for them that it was so - such a success - and it’s such a creative show. So, what is terrific is ours is completely different. As is true of MCU and certainly at Marvel, is they really come at every project with its own unique DNA. And so, there’s no rules, I guess is the way to put it, - and that’s - that’s very empowering.” 

Malcolm: “Anthony Mackie said the other day when we was doing a group thing - and he was like ‘Well all I know is we’re not the ones that are gonna ruin Marvel.’ I don’t know about them other shows, but hopefully we will honor the momentum that WandaVision got for us, but - yeah - it is - I’m stressed.”

“...The Falcon and The Winter Soldier obviously is a little more conventional when it comes to the tone of the past MCU adventures that we’ve seen. How would you guys describe the target zone that you chased?”

Malcom: “It was - what Marvel had before I ever walked through the door was that concept of a buddy two-hander. There’s an array of tones within that genre, if that’s what that is, that you can pick from. And, where we settled was somewhere like, on the comedic end is ‘Rush Hour’ and ‘Ride Along’, right? And we wanted to be more on the dramatic end. And what we found was ‘Lethal Weapon’ and ‘48 Hrs’ in particular dealt with really, very real issues of those times. ‘48 Hrs’ dealt with race, ‘Lethal Weapon’ dealt with the Vietnam War - people don’t even really think about that. It - that genre allows you tackle real issues, while keeping the journey fun.”

“The series opens with a crazy, high-flying sequence...what can you say about filming that opening?”

Kari: “I did a lot of research and wanted to have it very experiential so it really felt like we were flying. Cameras were clipped all over them; on their helmets, and their feet and in their hands. So we did that, and we hired an amazing team who, you know, did many jumps to get all of the - the flight sequence stuff. Obviously rigorous planning because of the danger factor, and there’s a story to it so certain action has to happen, and it has to happen while you’re dropping at, you know, 500 miles an hour, or whatever it is, you know, from a plane. So there was a lot of very detailed, minutia planning that goes in it.”

“Anthony, did you get to do anything new stunt-wise for that? Like, did you Tom Cruise at all for that scene?”

Anthony: “I always do all the flying stuff because it’s just me on a jerry rig looking left, looking right and then they paint me in. So, I always do all the flying stuff and, you know, Sebastian and I had a nice roll in the hay for the ending part of it.” (laughs)

Sebastian: “Yes.”

“Bucky goes on a date in the premiere, and he does say something along the lines of like ‘I haven’t danced since 1943′...I think we all know what that means. Bucky’s a little thirsty these days.  Are we; are we going to see him get - “

Sebastian: “Bucky’s a little rusty.” (Anthony laughs)

“Bucky’s a little thirsty.”

Sebastian: “Those knees are, you know, making sounds once, you know, when he gets on - ”

Anthony: “Bucky’s achin’ for some bacon!” (Sebastian laughs)

“...I know you can’t spoil too much, but are we going to see him get that kind of action in the series?”

Sebastian: “Yeah, I mean, of course like both of these guys get their strengths, and their weaknesses actually. Like, I feel like they’re featured pretty well in the series and I think they compliment each other well in terms of those action sequences, as you’re going to keep seeing it, you know.”

“Anthony, both Kevin Feige and Macolm Spellman have said that the show is going to explore race and identity in America, probably more than past MCU projects. How would you describe the show’s approach?”

Anthony: “One of the big things about Marvel, and one thing that I really enjoy about being part of the MCU, is it’s always very timely. The stories, the characters, their obstacles; they always turn out to be very timely, and there’s nothing different with this show. This show deals with a lot of baggage that we harbor as Americans and with the idea of these characters moving forward post-blip. We’re living kind of in a post-blip society now because after COVID, we’re gonna have to learn what our new normal is. Just like in the MCU, once we came back from the blip after five years, everyone has to figure out what their new normal is. So it’s the exact same thing, and it makes the show very timely; dealing with - you know - economic structure, race and the idea of not only being an American, but being a human.”

Kari: “This is a conversation that’s a very important conversation to be having all the time, but in particular, it’s really bubbled to the fore in the last year. What does it mean for a black man to pick up such an iconic white symbol? What does that mean for the character? It’s a real exploration of what we have traditionally laid into this iconic red, white and blue of it - and now we are taking it down another road, and we’re really exploring what that is. And we don’t necessarily want to give answer; I mean, I think it’s also really important to provoke discussion. So it’s - nothing is tied up in tidy, neat;little bows. The notion is to say, this needs to always be discussed and continually be embraced.”

Malcolm: “It was inescapable. I always tip my hat to ‘Black Panther’ which made it possible, because ‘Black Panther’ proved Marvel fans would go on a ride with heroes that don’t look like heroes have looked in the past. And, you know, the Killmonger speech - we had that printed up and put on the wall. The hashtag Killmongerwasright, because we felt like that was just out jumping off point for this one.  T’Challa is African, which is different from being African-American, and TChalla - RIP to the great Chadwick, like I said he made all this possible - was a King. Sam is a black man, and not only is he a black man, he is a black man from the south. And we knew that the stars and stripes, that symbol in his hand, doesn’t mean the same thing it does in Steve’s hand. And in fact, we wanted to just lean into the fact, like, give Sam a backstory, including a family with strong opinions about it, so that the audience would understand why he doesn’t take that mantle on; that he doesn’t see it as even being appropriate, ‘cos it just means something else. You can’t hide from it and we would’ve been making fake show if we tried to.”

[sulfurousdreamscapes]

First night in Boston, I slept on the sidewalk and watched the street lights light the cars and carriages that went left and right. It was miserable, but it was also the night I found the Zweihander.

Now I don't know how good your German is, and it probably isn't very good, if the looks of you are anything to go by—but a Zweihander means two-hander. Now, what do you think might be befitting to call by such a name?

It was a sword, traveller. A sword you hold in two hands, because it simply was that large. Have you ever seen a lance from the times of knights and kings? Imagine a sword that big. That was what fell out of the carriage and clanged on the street, shining bright under the lights and making a pair of dogs howl.

Scrambling off of the sidewalk, I ducked and reached the middle of the street, where I made doubly sure there weren't any glaring headlights coming my way.

I gripped the hilt with one hand, but the sword was nothing to joke about. Its weight was like pulling an anchor by your lonesome. It was only when I gripped it with my second hand too, and I gave it a mighty pull, that I managed to drag the blade off the street and into the alley by the sidewalk I'd meant to be sleeping in.

The sword's silver went a little darker when I saw a shadow appear to my left. It was the lady who was squatting in the shacks, I'd met her before, and she'd offered me dinner, but I'd passed on it. Dinners have got to be earned, by honest means. I was honest, but I hadn't earned.

"Where'd you find a thing like that?" she asked, frowning at the dear Zweihander.

Before I could answer, the horses came neighing back to the street. A pair of men, both suited in their best, but one was a strapping young lad, and the other a balding elderly professor-type. They searched the street animatedly, looking to the left and right, yelling at each other about the sword.

That's how I learned the word. "Zweihander," I said, stroking the metal in the alley the dark shielding me from the complicit street lights.

"They'll be wanting that," the lady said, and she sighed. Then she threw up her hands, the way you say 'That's none of my business', and she walked back to where she'd come from.

After the men left—very frustrated, I might add—I dragged the sword towards a pair of garbage cans, and I slid the blade behind them, so that it'd be a little bit hidden.

"Rest here, Zweihander," I said, and swore to do something about the sword the next morning. "I can't promise to take care of you like you would have been taken care of in Arthur's court. But I maybe you won't mind this rest. The city isn't kind to anyone. But we're not kind either, are we? We are the city, after all."

[aphasene]

The Commander's Neice A Levi x reader fanfiction.

I never understood the true meaning of safety. Even while staying in the inner walls of wall Sina. There was always danger at hand, no matter how hard my parents tried to hide it. It was always in the back of my mind like a parasite, ready to attack at any moment. Despite me never seeing a titan in my entire life, there was always a different type of danger waiting for me.

My story isn’t an overly happy one, I must warn you now. Not for me, nor the people around me. I fell in love, I made so many wonderful friends. That being said; it is a necessary one, for me and for the thousands of others whose story may not be told, I refuse to be another forgotten wilted flower, trampled by the heroes who weren’t as brave as I was.

I lived in the inner walls of wall Sina until the age of Ten, at that time I was still pretty young, not too young to be aware of the dangers that followed my family and I. we lived a rather happy life, living in one of the wealthiest places in the wall. My mother was a researcher in an underground organisation which sought the study and capture of not only titans but the politicians who kept the information to themselves. She was paid a large sum of money for the service. My father worked as a soldier for the military police, mainly as a spy from the organisation.

One day, however, everything changed. My mother was murdered and I was taken from wall Sina to the outer district; Shiganshina. But, before I left, my mother gave me a small pendant on a chain. There was a small keyhole in it, she told me to wear it around my neck and to never take it off under any circumstances.

My father and I fled to Shinganshina where he worked as a merchant, going from district and district, selling salts, furs and other endangered items. Despite him making a fair amount of money from these strange things, my father and I lived a very humble life.

All seemed alright until that fateful day…

***

The ground blurred beneath me. I continue running for what felt like longer than it should have. The steady pound of my footstep’s echoes into my ears. I feel beads of sweat roll down my forehead and splatter to my chin. The only things that could hander me from my survival were my physical limits and my doubt. I clutch the small loaf of bread in my jacket. The soles of my shoes hit the ground in stings of pain, but I wasn’t giving up. There was no way I was going back to my father empty handed.

I turn a corner sharply, only to slam straight into a wall. I had cornered myself in an alleyway. I spin around to see a group of three slightly older boys advancing slowly, trapping me in this alley.

“Get away from me!” I cry, in one last attempt to hide my fear and panic.

“Come on no, (Y/N).” The ringleader snarls. “All you need to do is give us that loaf of bread you have tucked in your pocket.”

“No!” I scream, “That bread is for my father and I.”

“Your father is a merchant. Surely you could afford so much more than that. Why not give that small loaf to someone who needs it.” He shoots me a menacing toothy grin.

“That’s not the point. Bullying someone just because you want a small loaf of bread is low!”

He growls. “I’m going to ask you one more time: hand over the bread.”

“No!” I yell.

“Fine.”

The three boys move in closer and closer, closing the gap between us. This is the end. I think to myself. I close my eyes and braced or impact.

“Hey you!”

I open my eyes at the unfamiliar voice and see a boy around my age dashing towards the boys with an unhuman speed. Beside him was a girl with jet black hair and a look of thunder and a boy with blonde hair and bright blue eyes behind them.

“What is it now-!” The boys stop in their tracks when they see the three of them. “Oh shit, it’s her!”

The boys scramble away, seemingly forgetting about my measly loaf.

“And stay away from her!” The brown-haired boy bellows. He turns to me with an apologetic look. “Sorry about those goons. Did they hurt you?”

I shake my head and take my loaf from my jacket. It was a little crushed but still good enough to eat.

“I’m Eren by the way, this is Mikasa and Armin.” He gestures to the others who smiled and waved.

“I’m (Y/N). Nice to meet you.” I say shyly. I had seen the three of them before. They caused a lot of havoc in the time I had been here, which is only a few months.

Eren offers me a welcoming hand. “You should totally come with us. Armin here, has a book he wants to show us.”

Armin nods. “It’s about the outside world.”

My eyes widen in awe. “I’d love to!”

***

The four of us sit, cooped in a corner beside the river that runs through the district, all huddled over this book that contained a future that was never meant to be.

“It says here.” Armin begins, “That there is a huge source of water called the ‘ocean’. Apparently, there’s so much salt that not even all the merchants in the world could collect it all.”

“My father’s a merchant!” I respond. “I bet that would be heaven on earth for him.”

“No way, that’s so cool!” Eren claps his hands in glee. “So, he like, goes to different places in the walls?”

“Yeah, we used to live in wall Sina, but there were issues concerning my safety so we decided to live here.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie but one wrong move could blow our cover for the both of us.

“What was Wall Sina like?” Mikasa asks, her voice soft and quiet.

“It was huge! There were huge buildings around the districts. It was a land of silver where everything sparkled.” I say as I recall the place, I once called home. “But there are evil people crawling the place.”

“The military police.” Eren snarls.

“Not really, my father used to be an MP. But you’d be surprised how secretive you’d have to be. You could never be too careful. But it was certainly cleaner.”

“Also,” Armin had only been paying half attention to my story, he had been flicking through his book. “There are huge fields of sand. I think they’re called…Deserts?”

“We have to go there!” Eren squawks, “Just you wait, when I join the survey corps, we’re going to see all those things!”

“The Survey Corps?” I shudder. “There’s no way in hell! I’m never joining those suicidal maniacs.”

“They’re not suicidal!” Eren protests.

“Well, they kind of are.” Armin shuts his book.

Mikasa remains silent, though I can see her face contort.

“They’re not! And I can prove once and for all that they’re true heroes.” He glares at us through his fringe, “Besides, I have a mission to kill every last titan in existence.”

“Good luck with that.” I say rolled my eyes fondly. “Anyway, I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

The trio nods, smiling sweetly at me, before I stroll down the streets.

***

“Father, I’m home!” I yell, letting myself inside.

Over my shoulder, see him standing over the sink peeling a pile of potatoes that we had grown in our tiny garden. He looks over at me and beams.

“Ah, (Y/N). You’re back. Did you get the bread?”

I nod, placing the loaf in the middle of the dining table. “Uh huh. Those boys gave me a bit of trouble though.”

“What did they do this time?” Father looks at me with genuine concern.

“The same as they always do, but I made some new friends though.”

“That’s good to hear.” He ruffles my hair and places our supper on the table, two bowls of vegetable broth. “I was beginning to worry about your ability to make friends.”

“It’s not my fault that the people in Shiganshina are difficult to talk to.” I sit in my seat and feel the fragrance of the soup and the bread mixed together, my stomach growls hungrily.

“Whatever, I’m glad you’re finally hanging out with someone that isn’t me.” He chuckles taking a sip.

I look down at my pendant, a mixture of confusion mourning.

“Still thinking about Mother?” Father asks, it’s clear that I had been quiet for a little too long.

“Yeah.” I say simply. “It’s still a little difficult.”

“I know honey.” He reaches over the table to touch my shoulder. “I miss her too but I’m sure wherever she is right now, she’s so proud of you.”

“Speaking of which.” My eyes flicker to my pendant, “I’ve been having a think about this pendant…”

My father smiles. “You’re still wondering what it truly is, aren’t you?”

“Why was it even given to me?” I ask, still fiddling with it.

Father smiles knowingly at me. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

***

The next morning, I trot down the street, the sun shining brilliantly on my back. I see Eren, Mikasa and Armin sitting in a circle on a nearby pavement. Eren waves at me earning a smile from the others.

“Morning (Y/N).” Mikasa says patting a space next to her. “Eren was telling us about the scouts again.” I see a little roll of her eyes.

“Don’t say it like that!” Eren protests. “And don’t pretend that you weren’t sold on joining them too.”

“I’m not.” Mikasa huffs.

“Hey (Y/N), what’s with the necklace?” Armin asks.

“Oh this?” I look down to my necklace. “Well before my Mother died, she gave me this, she told me that it was vital that I didn’t take this off. She told me that it was important for humanity, but I never knew what.”

“So, it’s the only thing that you have to remember her?” Eren asks.

Mikasa slaps Eren’s shoulder.

“Ow! What was that for!?” He scowls.

“Don’t be so insensitive!” Mikasa scolds.

“It’s fine, really. It’s kind of nice to have something that’s been entrusted to me.”

“Don’t you think that it-.”

“Titan!”

We hear a panicked voice echo over the entire district. I jump to my feet, in an attempt to see over the shoulders of the crowd.

“What is it?” Mikasa asks.

“I don’t know.” I say hopping on the balls of my feet, “I’m going to get closer look.”

“I’m coming too.” Eren says.

“So am I.” Mikasa and Armin say in unison.

The four of us dash down the cobblestone road, pushing past the groups of people, I search the scene in front of us, then I see it.

I watch as a titan slowly appears over the wall, it was grotesque and twisted, as if the skin had melted off its face, despite it’s lack of expression, it moved with purpose, sending a jolt of dread through my entire being.

“It’s peering over the wall.” Armin cries. “It has to be around 50 metres.”

The crowd remains silent for what feels like an eternity, when suddenly I hear a mighty crash! Beside us stands another titan, it looks like it had armour from head to toe.

I stumble back, bumping into a few people, a few flashes of figures of titans run through my vision. I have to find my father!

I run, my feet slapping the land. Perhaps a little while ago I would have scoffed at the idea of running so far and fast, now I push myself forward in the search of my father. Only now, I am born to run, it’s as if my life depends on it, a few titans jump in front of me but I dodge their grasp, I cannot be killed today.

I run down our street, I see father staggering into the clearing, clutching his side. He’s alive!

“Father!” I yell, catching up to him, but as I get closer, I notice his despairing face. “Father I-!”

The second I come within reach of him, he grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me into another alley.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

We hear a thump, almost like a loud, large footstep.

“Oh my god.” I squeak.

“Listen to me (Y/N); it’s too late for me now, you have to go on without me.” He shakes me slightly.

“What do you mean? You look fine.”

“Sweetie, I can barely walk, let alone run. You need to get out of here, you are our only hope.”

“Hope?” I sob. “Hope for what?”

He rummages in the pocket in his jacket and hands me a small letter enclosed in an envelop with a wax seal with our family’s crest. “This will explain everything.”

I take the letter, gripping it as hard as I can. “Father-.” My voice wavers as tears pricks my vision. “I don’t want to do this.”

He brings me into a tight hug, I feel him shake violently, “(Y/N), I will always be proud of you, remember that.”

The footsteps get closer and he pushes me behind a few crates. I peak around theme, I see a slightly smaller titan with a sickening grin approaching my father, I want to scream and cry but against my better judgement I stay as quiet as I can. I watch as it grabs my father’s squirming body and walks away. I turn as quiet as I can and scramble to my feet.

My feet patter on the ground, I run as fast as I can, I think about my father, I thing about my friends, I think about the entire townspeople whose lives may have been taken away today. I hear a shrill scream coming from behind me. I blink back a few tears, as I power forward, I have to. For everyone who has faith in me.

I never knew what the world had in store for me, but one thing was for certain, it wasn’t this. Both my parents are dead and I never knew what plans they were scheming, maybe it was never really truly for me to know.

But now I have to fight for my survival, I don’t know that the world has in store for me but bring it on.

[katkulita]

A Day in the Life of Inquisitor Florence

(It's early morning. The sun is rising, first rays of sunlight make their way through the high valleys between mountain peaks of the range opposite, hitting only the tallest towers of the fortress yet. The air is delightfully clean and chilly.

FLORENCE ADAAR is walking down the stairs from Skyhold's Great Hall, dressed in leather trousers and a simple linen shirt, her hair tied in a three-strand knot between her horns. She's carrying her sword, a big two-hander.

Florence is watching two soldiers in a ring at the bottom of the stairs, sparring with wooden training swords. One of them is Commander Cullen. Florence approaches the ring and puts her sword aside; then chooses the biggest and heaviest of the practice swords that are stacked in a wooden box near the entrance to the ring. She looks at it with disapproval, swings it with her right hand without much effort and frowns.

Meanwhile, Commander Cullen has finished sparring with his partner, Warden Blackwall. They shake hands, exchange a friendly remark or two, Blackwall picks up the padded coat he had left on the fence and leaves. Cullen wipes the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his shirt, unties another string that's supposed to hold his shirt closed in front, then gestures to Florence.

Florence enters the ring for her morning sword practice. Cullen charges at her, she blocks his attack - I have no idea what moves they do or what to call them, just imagine them waving wooden swords at each other - they spar for quite a while. But Cullen is showing signs of fatigue, he has been in the ring with others since daybreak, so Florence thanks him for his time, he grabs his feathered boa coat and sets on his way.

Some audience has gathered around the ring as people go to the tavern for breakfast or from it and stop to assess their leaders' skill in combat. Two persons stand out in the crowd; one of them is a huge Qunari, the Iron Bull, who would honestly stand out in any crowd unless it was a herd of druffalos; the other one stands out only because Bull is currently whispering to him. It's Krem, Bull's best boy.

Florence, having lost her sparring partner, looks around the ring. She's searching for Cassandra who she caught a glimpse of just a few moments ago, but there's no sign of the Seeker; she must have gone to the tavern, too. As Florence turns around, Krem has entered the sparring ring and waves at her with his practice sword. Florence waves back, they both assume combat posture and start sparring.)

Crowd: (cheering)

(They practice for a while, but Florence seems to be uncomfortable with her left hand.)

Florence: (stumbles and swings her two-handed training sword with only her right hand; she shakes cramps from her left hand and resumes posture)

Krem: (with concern) You all right, Inquisitor?

The Iron Bull: (mockingly from the crowd) Go easy on her, Krem! She's all worn out!

Krem: Had a busy night, eh?

Crowd: (laughs)

The Iron Bull: Oh yeah! (Crowd cheers with him) Give her some slack. (moves towards the entrance to sparring ring)

Florence: (gasps in mock upset, then challenges them) Ooh, I can take on both of you, boys, no problem.

Crowd: (cheers)

Krem: Ugh... I'm afraid I'm not interested?

Crowd: (oohs and laughs)

Florence: (snorts with repressed laughter) In combat! Ooh, you're a dead Krem now!

(Meanwhile, Bull has picked up one of the practice swords, entered the ring and assumed position next to Krem. Crowd gets agitated - this is going to be fun!)

Florence: Alright, come at me!

(Krem charges at her, she dodges the blow and dives before Bull's attack. Look, I don't know the right words to describe the action, I find action scenes infinitely boring and describing every single move takes forever. Let's just imagine they spar, Florence manages to avoid being overwhelmed for some time, but eventually gets cornered.

In an attempt to escape from a tight spot, she climbs on the fence surrounding the ring with one swift but graceful motion.)

Crowd: (cheers and claps)

Florence: (balancing on the fence, grins) Who has the high ground now?

(Cassandra emerges from the crowd.)

Cassandra: (sternly) That would hardly be possible with a heavy sword, though, wouldn't it, Inquisitor?

(Crowd starts to dissolve immediately. The show is over.)

Florence: (jumps down from the fence towards Cassandra) Well, yes, but... Look, it's not my fault that the practice swords are all too light. I'm making do with what I have.

Cassandra: (frowns at Florence) But you don't have to make a show out of it. If you want to practice some more-

Florence: (drops her training sword back into the box) Nah, I'm good. I've had enough exercise for today.

Krem: (still in the sparring ring, to Bull) Hear that, chief? No hanky panky for you tonight.

The Iron Bull: (smirks) Wanna bet?

Cassandra: (makes a disgusted noise and leaves)

(An inconspicuous bald elf in tights and something resembling a night-shirt appears. He wasn't in the crowd, so he must have come from... somewhere else? It's Solas, the local elven apostate, Fade expert and hobo.)

Solas: Inquisitor, may I have a word with you?

Florence: Sure.

(She walks with Solas a few steps away from Bull and Krem.)

Solas: Your hand is glowing. Did you use the Anchor in training?

Florence: (looks at her left hand which emits faint green light) Uh. No, I don't use the Mark in practice. In fact, I don't think I'd be able to, well, use it on purpose.

Solas: But you do use it to close the rifts and in combat.

Florence: Yeah, but that's different. The rifts kind of pull at it, so they... close themselves, you could say. And in combat... I don't know, it's like I feel it charge up and then I use it, if you can imagine what I'm saying.

Solas: (nods)

Florence: In training, it's never happened so far. No idea why.

Solas: Mhm. Your focus in real combat must help channel more power into the Mark, perhaps. Unfortunate that you can't do the same in practice.

(Solas looks at Florence's hand with thinly-veiled envy and disapproval. Florence notices his look and frowns.

Solas turns to leave.)

Florence: (quietly, to Solas) You know, I'd give it to you if I could.

(Krem snorts from the sparring ring; he must have been listening to them. Solas turns back to Florence, stone-faced.)

Solas: I... beg your pardon?

Florence: I said, I'd gladly pass the Mark to you if I knew how. So it would be killing you and not me.

Solas: Yes. Well, what's done is done, I'm afraid.

(Florence nods at him and he leaves.

Bull approaches her quietly.)

The Iron Bull: (whispers) He'd snap like a twig. *

Florence: (chuckles) Yeah... You know what? No, I don't think he would, actually.

(Bull glances at her with curiosity, then turns his gaze back to Solas, who's leaving.)

The Iron Bull: Gah, I guess you're right, kadan. There's more to him than meets the eye.

Florence: (crosses her arms mockingly) Oh, so we're back to "kadan" now, are we?

The Iron Bull: (with low, deep voice) I'll get back to you, kadan, tonight, in your quarters.

Florence: (giggles)

Krem: (from behind them, with disgust) Ugh, do you have to, in public?

Florence: (turns to face Krem, arms still folded) Look, your Daddy and I have an intimate relationship, you'll have to get used to it. Now go play with the other kids! (waves her hand to dismiss Krem)

(Krem grins, salutes mockingly and leaves.)

Florence: (picks up her two-handed real sword; to Bull) Say... How about after lunch?

* (Camera cuts to Solas' face as he walks away from the Inquisitor and her beau. He heard them. His face hardens and his eyes light up in distressing blue for a few heartbeats.)

[markwatkinsconsumerguide]

Consumer Guide / No.110 / Howzat?!  Cricket broadcaster and magazine editor, Annie Chave, batting the questions from Mark Watkins.

MW : Describe your favourite room in your house...  

AC : My new office. It is small with a daybed and a desk. It includes a shelf with my County Cricket Matters magazines & envelopes for posting, a bookshelf of cricket books, several photos of the Taunton pitch and one of Marcus Trescothick. It also has a really precious photo of me with my dad watching cricket when I’m about 8 years old. 

From my window, I can see the hills outside Exeter. I’ve painted the room a light grey and it is usually bathed in sunlight. I love the sense of calm I feel when I shut myself in my office.

MW : When setting out to watch County Cricket, what essentials do you usually carry in your bag? 

AC : I always have the current book I’m reading, my binoculars and a warm layer. More recently I have my phone and I have a recording device so that I can interview people. I will now always have backdated & current copies of County Cricket Matters but I’m yet to go to a county match since I’ve been doing my magazine so I don’t know how many to take.

MW : What other essentials are usually provided at the ground?

AC: Cricket is the main essential. Tea, cake and beer a close second and familiar faces a third. But a sense of calm, of solace and of healing is also right up there. 

MW : What is the most picturesque ground you've visited?

AC : Without a doubt Lynton & Lynmouth. It is a valley in North Devon that is right by the sea with steep hillsides surrounding the pitch where goats precariously balance at incongruous angles.  It is a stunning and timeless setting.

MW : Which ground has the best surface?

AC : Taunton, of course, because it is unique and rarely produces a dull game!

MW : When summer is over, what is your cricket substitute?

AC: Nothing substitutes cricket. There is little to compare with the sense of joy as March turns into April and I find myself anticipating the season ahead. Since I have begun editing County Cricket Matters I have been able to maintain a connection with cricket over the winter and I value that hugely. I also do a lot of reading and writing to fill in the time.

MW : Just before a new cricket season begins how do you usually prepare? 

AC : I buy my Playfair Cricket Annual and Wisden and I love The Cricketer round up of the counties. I also choose a county fantasy cricket team at CricketXI.com  and I’ll do a lot of reading up about county signings and retirements so that I am prepared for my new County Cricket Natters podcast, which is a “Match Of The Day” type show that rounds up the week’s championship games.

MW : How useful are you with bat & ball? 

AC : Well, I’m worse than useless with the bat. I try to hit everything to the boundary and I can’t get bat on ball. But I have been known to bowl a bit and I’ve upset a few men’s fragile ego by knocking their stumps over with my straight medium pace. My claim to fame is that when I briefly played women’s cricket for  Gunnersbury Women’s Cricket Club, I fluked the wicket of Charlotte Edwards, when she was brilliantly caught off my long-hop. She was only 14 at the time.

MW : ...and how about the rest of your family?

AC: Well now, that’s a question. My father played cricket and kept wicket until he was 76. Nimble and fast behind the stumps right up until he retired. He was a decent bat and when he was younger was a useful seam-up bowler who took a lot of wickets.

My two brothers still play. The younger a decent left-handed bat and very good keeper – the elder a slow bowler who has claimed many wickets and is a good man in to bat for the draw.

My husband is a very useful opener who could have played at a higher level than he did. He began his bowling life as a fast bowler but in later years he became a useful off-break bowler and one hell of a slip fielder. Now in his late fifties he still opens the batting and often with our son.

My son is a left-handed bat who plays the long game, starting steadily and able to accelerate at an alarming pace. He is also a nifty right-arm, off-break bowler who varies his pace and gets a good bit of bounce.

So yes, a fair amount of cricket in our family.

MW : Who is your current cricket heartthrob?

AC : I don’t really go in for heartthrobs but out of current players then I’d go for Jofra Archer.  Past players - Viv Richards. Such brazen talent.

MW : Which cricketer gives you the most heartache?! 

AC : Toss-up between Moeen Ali and Jos Buttler because I feel they both have to always justify their test place and yet they are so hugely talented.

MW : You are Test selector for the day, what would be your (current) England eleven? 

AC :  This is a really hard question because it depends if we’re playing in England or against a team of left-handers or at a particular ground etc.  I think I’ll make it a team to play in England and I’ll imagine that the team :

Rory Burns

Dom Sibley (don’t like watching him bat though!)

Zak Crawley (a classy bat.)

Joe Root

Ben Stokes (after Headingly in 2019 there is no explanation.)

Jos Buttler (I think a test side with Jos in is a strong Test side but I recognise he’s not the best keeper – that would definitely be Ben Foakes – however, in England conditions I think Jos is good enough and the impetus in the batting is important.)

Chris Woakes (under used and underrated.)

Jack Leach/Moeen Ali (I literally cannot choose between them so dependent on if we need to strengthen the batting.)

Jofra Archer

Stuart Broad

Jimmy Anderson

MW : How would you sell County Cricket to the uninitiated?

AC : I think anything that has such a rich history behind it is worth experiencing. Each ground has its own multi-layered past where momentous games have taken place and iconic players have broken records. The setting of each and every one of the 18 county grounds is unique and full of promise.  I love that sense of past glories that help to define its character and I’m aware that each match I attend could bring a moment of magic or history at any point.

But County Cricket is unique because of its relaxed and friendly atmosphere. You have the ceremony, the classy players, the thrill of the contest, the changing conditions, the double innings, the sense of camaraderie in the crowd but you also have a quieter more respectful experience. You are able to wander around, change seats, chat with friends and with strangers, go to the bar without fighting your way to an endless queue and you have time to daydream, time to read your paper and have a break for lunch. 

There is also a great rapport between player and spectator because the pace is slower and the drama comes in short bursts so the player is more relaxed; the spectator better able to engage. There is nothing more life affirming than time alone at a county match.

MW : What radio do you listen to in the car? 

AC : BBC Radio 4 for Drama, BBC 5 Live for Sport & BBC 6 Music for my musical requirements and always cricket, or football, if it’s on ; Exeter City is my football team, but I’m partial to Arsenal too.

MW : What was the last good DVD. movie and TV show you particularly enjoyed watching?

AC : As with my reading matter I tend to enjoy science fiction and detective thrillers.

I think the last good DVD I watched was 1917.

It feels like forever since I’ve been to the cinema and I can’t really remember what I enjoyed there last, but it would have been a Star Wars film I suspect.

The last TV series I really enjoyed was Firefly.  

MW : Where can we keep in touch?

AC : County Cricket Matters has a website https://www.countycricketmatters.com/ where you can also purchase magazines at the shop

It also has a Facebook group County Cricket Matters and a Twitter Account @matterscounty

I’m on Twitter @anniechave and on LinkedIn and Facebook.

(c) Mark Watkins / March 2021

[shaalk]

Stages of life- Chapter 1

Type: Chaptered

Characters: Sehun x Reader

Genre: Exes to lovers, Smut, Fluff, Romance, Angst

Warnings: None

Status: Completed

Summary: Being with Sehun is a rollercoaster ride of emotions. There are so many ups and downs, but as someone who enjoys thrill, I love every moment with him.

Words: 3029

Tags: @riajae​ @smolpeyy​ @sheebaba​ @meryljill-111192​ @j-pping​ @ohsehunxv​ @tansyfleurwhisper​ @vad-hander​ @rexo91

Mini masterlist | Chapter 2

“Yo, do you mind if some of my friends crash at our place?” Junmyeon shouts, trying to talk over the music and conversations happening at the club. 

I really want to reject him. After all, it is a Saturday night and I am already in my comfortable clothes, ready to curl up on the sofa to binge watch a drama. But since I have requested this of Junmyeon, my housemate, several times before, it is only fair that I let him do as such too. 

I sigh and grunt in agreement. 

“Great! We’ll be back in about 10 minutes, we’re just getting into my friend’s car,” I hear as the line clicks.

I glance down at my clothes and then at the apartment. Both are a mess. It wouldn’t be nice for me to greet Junmyeon’s guests in my tank top and booty shorts. 

Immediately, I go to change into something a way less revealing and then start cleaning up the place.

Since Junmyeon and I are busy with our careers, we don’t really have time to clean our apartment often. Whatever free time we have, we spend either lazing around the apartment or meeting our friends. This explains why there are take-out boxes everywhere, dishes piled up in the sink and clothes strewn throughout the living room.

I know I can’t make the apartment spick and span in the 8 minutes I have left but I try my best. I shove all the left-over food into the fridge, throw out all the empty take-out boxes, place the dirty dishes into the dish washer that we still don’t even know how to operate despite living in our apartment for almost two years, and dump our clothes in our respective closets. 

Folding the clothes were a job for another day, as long as they were out of sight for now.

Thankfully, I manage to make the apartment look presentable in the short amount time I had because just as I shut my wardrobe, I hear the sound of the front door being opened and laughter echoing throughout the once tranquil apartment. 

Not wanting to be rude, I walk out to meet Junmyeon and his friends.

“Hey oppa,” I greet as Junmyeon ruffles my hair. 

I slap his hands away and glare at him in displeasure to which he just guffaws. He knows I hate it when he does that but he continues doing it all the time anyway because he says that I look adorable whenever I am annoyed.

Junmyeon then introduces me to his friends who are watching us with amusement. 

“This is Yixing, that’s Kyungsoo and the one that looks like Yoda is Chanyeol.” 

I snicker when the last guy throws something at Junmyeon, clearly pissed that he was called by his apt nickname in front of a stranger. Unfortunately, the item misses the target by a bit and Junmyeon starts making faces at his friend. 

I shake my head at how childish my housemate is being even though he’s almost 30 years old.

“There’s one more friend who’s parking his car. I’ll introduce you to him when he comes up.” 

I nod and greet his friends shyly, not used to having so much attention on me.

Junmyeon probably senses my discomfort because within the next second, he ushers his friends into the living room while I head into the kitchen to get them some refreshments.

As I am making my way out of the kitchen with a tray consisting of glasses of water and some snacks, the doorbell rings again, signalling the arrival of Junmyeon’s last friend. 

Even though I am the closest to the door, my hands are full, so Junmyeon rushes to open the door in my stead.

“Parking was such a bitch!” I hear as the door slams shut. 

Junmyeon pulls his friend into the living room where the rest of them have already started watching a movie.

“So this is my friend who was parking his car, he’s..” 

Before Junmyeon can even finish introducing me to his friend, I drop the tray I am holding in shock. Thankfully I have already set down everything that was on it or else there would have been a huge mess!

After the crashing of the tray, the only sounds resonating throughout the apartment are the voices coming from the TV. 

“Sehun?” I whisper shakily, not believing that this male is standing right in front of my eyes. 

I guess I am not the only one who is taken aback because I can recognise the shock painted across Sehun’s features as well.

“You two know each other?” I vaguely comprehend Junmyeon asking. 

But I can’t concentrate on that question, not when I am staring right into the eyes of the man I have been trying to avoid for the past 4 years.

——————————————————————

I sigh in frustration and thrash on my bed, irritated that I still haven’t fallen asleep yet even though it is already 3am. 

Out of all the guys in the world, how could Junmyeon be friends with Oh Sehun? I guess the saying is right, it really is a small world.

After the tray dropping incident, I didn’t bother answering Junmyeon’s question. Unable to take the intensity of 4 confused looks and 1 surprised look on me, I shuffle to my bedroom speedily after mumbling a quick good night.

That was almost 4 hours ago, and I hadn’t stepped out of my room after that. 

But now, that is about to change because I really have to pee and the only toilet in the apartment is connected to the kitchen. 

I clearly heard Junmyeon’s bedroom door close earlier meaning he has already gone to bed. I try to listen through my door for any noises coming from the living room but there is only complete silence.

Assuming that Junmyeon’s friends are all asleep as well, I slowly twist my door knob and pull it open slightly. I peek out to confirm that my assumption is right, Junmyeon’s friends really are fast asleep.

Doing a mini but silent cheer, I stealthily escape the confines of my bedroom and jog to the toilet. As soon as I plop down onto the toilet bowl, I sigh in relief. I have been trying to control myself for so long.

After finishing my business, I make my way back to my room quietly. As I pass the living room, I notice that only three of Junmyeon’s friends are sleeping there.

Yixing and Kyungsoo are spread across the L-shaped couch with a thick and fluffy blanket over them. On the other hand, Sehun is uncomfortably sleeping on the tiny single seater sofa. His arms and legs are crossed while he is seated upright. His head is hanging off the back of the chair and he doesn’t even have a blanket over him because Junmyeon and I only have one spare.

Worried that he might catch a cold since it is in the middle of autumn, I tiptoe towards Sehun to wake him up. I tap him on the arm gently to find that his body is slightly cold to the touch already.

Shit, he's gonna get sick if he doesn't move to a warmer environment.

“Sehun,” I whisper as discreetly as I can while I nudge him shoulder. 

Sehun was a heavy sleeper in the past but thankfully, his eyes bolt open without me having to raise my voice. I wouldn’t want the other two boys to wake up. 

The male faces me with furrowed brows, probably displeased that his sleep was interrupted. He then rubs his eyes to wake himself up a little. I’m sure he isn’t trying to look cute at all but he absolutely does.

Geez, keep it in your pants girl!

I tug at his arm lightly. 

“Let’s go to my room, i’m worried you might get sick,” I mumble again, not wanting to cause a ruckus in the middle of the night. 

He nods like a child and follows behind me like a puppy.

I manage to get us back into the confines of my room silently. Sehun just stands in front of my bed listlessly, staring into space since he is still hazy with sleep. 

Seeing as he is so out of it, I push him towards my bed and tuck him under the covers once he is comfortably laid down. I then make my way to the empty side of the bed and prepare to go to sleep too.

“You sure you’re ok with this?” His deep voice slurs suddenly.

I don’t even take a moment to think. 

“Of course. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before anyway,” I reply and turn to face away from Sehun, ready to head off to dreamland.

I can sense that Sehun still has something left to say but I stop him before he can open his mouth. 

“We’ll talk in the morning, I promise.” 

I feel the mattress bounce as Sehun tries to get into a more cosy position before I hear his breathing even out. Soon after, I fall asleep too.

——————————————————————

It is in the middle of autumn which means that it is supposed to be quite cold. I have not turn on the heater in my room and I can’t feel the blanket over me so I am not sure why i’m feeling so warm.

I lazily open my eyes to reach for the fan switch but am not greeted with the view of my room. Instead, I only see pale skin. 

My nose is pressed against the base of Sehun’s neck. His chin is resting on top of my head while his lips are pressed against my hair. He has an arm over my waist and our legs are in a tangle. 

I don’t know how but I manage to feel myself get warmer. Despite being utterly abashed, I use the opportunity to take a proper look at Sehun.

His eyebrows are in a furrow and his cheeks are puffed out. Unknowingly, he is pouting. He looks so cute in his sleeping state, a stark difference from when he is awake, where he is dashing. 

I catch sight of the little scar on Sehun’s right cheek and as if my hand has a mind of its own, it makes its way up to his face to caress it.

I clearly remember when Sehun first got it. It was our second year of university and we were all required to sign up for extra curricular activities. Being the sports enthusiast, Sehun opted for football and he was immediately picked as the new goalkeeper at the first try-outs due to his amazing skills.

During the finals of the inter-university championships, Sehun dived to save a goal attempt by the opposing team and accidentally got scratched by a sharp plastic item that was on the ground. By deflecting that goal, our school managed to win the match and become the champions of the competition.

Sehun was always insecure about his scar, complaining that it “affected his good-looks” but I could never agree with him. The scar was a result of his passion and victory. If possible, it made him look even more attractive in my eyes.

I am still stroking the scar when Sehun’s eyelids start fluttering. Not wanting to have to deal with the awkward situation that we are literally tangled in, I bring my hand back down to my chest and pretend to be asleep. 

Sehun inhales deeply and I feel his head move away from mine. He is probably trying to gain his bearings in his groggy state. 

Soon though, I feel a burning stare on me and then a light flick against my forehead. 

“Are you gonna stop pretending to be asleep?” I hear him ask teasingly in his sandy morning voice, inducing butterflies in the pits of my stomach.

I frown, embarrassed that I have been caught. Given no other choice, I hesitantly open my eyes only to have Sehun’s face an inch away from mine. I still in shock and jerk backwards, not expecting him to be so close to me. 

We just stare at each other in comfortable silence until Sehun breaks the moment. 

“Its morning already, let’s talk now.” 

I sigh, I guess I brought this upon myself. I really thought he would have forgotten my words since he was half asleep when I made the promise. 

“Why’d you suddenly leave me all those years ago? You didn’t give me a reason or anything. No proper breakup whatsoever. You just left! Why would you do that to me? To us? I loved you and I thought your feelings for me were the same. Was I wrong the whole time? Was I just a toy for you to play around with?”

My heart clenches at the pain I put Sehun through. It is time for me to tell him the truth, he deserves it after I simply ghosted him 4 years ago.

“I’m so sorry for what I did to hurt you 4 years ago Hun-ah. But I swear, it wasn’t because I had other agendas. My feelings for you were genuine and they were since the start. You have to believe me!” I begin. 

Sehun’s hard eyes soften at my confession. He gazes at me patiently, waiting for me to continue with my explanation.

This is when I realise that Sehun isn’t mad at me for what I did to him in the past anymore. Because if he was, he would have directed his anger at me the moment he saw me the night before. He just wants an explanation for my actions. He needs closure.

“Do you remember the end of our 3rd year of uni when our internship postings were released?” 

Sehun nods in acknowledgment.

“Everyone had gotten spots at local companies while you, being the smartypants, you managed to secure a job at one of the most prestigious companies in the world. Do you remember how excited you were when you found out that your dream company had contacted you for an internship?” 

Sehun hums with a mirth of a smile on his pretty lips.

“But then when you found out that you had to move across the world to New York to do the internship, you wanted to reject the offer because you didn’t want to be separated from me. I couldn’t let you do that Sehun, I couldn’t let you give up your dream just for me.” 

I know Sehun wants to chime in but I stop him. I need him to hear the full story first.

“I knew that if I had asked you for a breakup, you wouldn’t have agreed to it. So, I used the most cowardly method to get out of the relationship with you. I ran! And i’m sorry I did that to you but I don’t regret my decision at all since you went for the internship eventually. I really loved you Sehun, I hope you believe me.”

After getting everything off my chest, I realise I have started crying. 

That was a really rough period for both of us. Sure I had intentionally hurt Sehun. If his texts asking me to come back to him after I left weren’t enough evidence, I don’t know what were. But I was hurting too. I wasn’t the same after leaving Sehun. I was never as happy as I was when I was with him. 

Even years after, I still thought about him regularly and about how bad of a girlfriend I was for breaking his heart. I didn’t trust myself to date anybody after him. I couldn’t bear to hurt anyone else.

I dared to lay my eyes on Sehun only to see that he is observing me, unshed tears on his waterline. 

“Would you ever be able to forgive me for all the pain i’ve caused you?” I ask hopefully. 

This isn’t a small request to ask of Sehun and deep down I know it wouldn’t be easy to forgive all the pain and heartbreak I had intentionally caused him. 

And I am right because Sehun shakes his head. 

I am suddenly embarrassed at how hopeful I was but I understand his decision. I nod solemnly and move to climb off the bed when Sehun catches my arm, halting all my movements.

“I’ll forgive you,” I perk up, “but only if you be my girlfriend again.”

The smile is wiped off my face completely. This time, I shake my head. 

“I can’t do that Sehun. What if I hurt you again? I’ll never be able to forgive myself.” 

I can feel hot tears dripping down my face once more.

Unable to watch me cry any longer, Sehun lifts me up with his strong arms and places me on his lap so that I am straddling him. 

“Love, look at me. You’re not going to hurt me again ok? If anything, you’re gonna make me the happiest man alive by being with me.” 

I shake my head profusely, I am not going to let Sehun be with a girl like me again.

“I thought you didn’t want to cause me anymore pain and heartbreak? You’re hurting me now because you’re not accepting me as your boyfriend even though i’m still crazily in love with you,” Sehun guilt trips me as he bounces me on his lap a little, trying to elicit a positive response out of me.

I glare him slightly, upset that he is using my own words to blackmail me. 

Sehun chuckles heartily and pinches my cheek in adoration, something he always did when we were dating. 

“Please come back to me sweetheart,” Sehun pleads once more. 

He sounds so desperate that I can’t help but give in. I huff but nod in the end. I want him to be my boyfriend too anyway.

In his ecstatic state, Sehun suddenly lets out a high pitched squeal. I don’t have time to laugh at the ridiculous sound he made because I am flipped over to lie on my back while my boyfriend hovers over me.

“Thank you baby,” he whispers lovingly before letting his lips meet mine.

A/N: Let me know what you think! Please leave a comment :)

Mini masterlist | Chapter 2

[fumbling-fanfics]

So I got another one for Julio lol so his girl is at a yoga class and they are meeting up for a late lunch and he comes to the yoga studio a little early and sees her in a few poses (hint hint wink wink) lol and he starts feeling some type a way and she has no idea what’s going through his mind when she walks up to him afterwards lol

"Is it still good for me to duck out now?" Julio asked, sticking his head around the Truth office door. Ghost was sat in his office desk, going over the books. Tommy was lounging on the sofa on his phone.

"Yeah, sure. Everything good?“ Ghost asked looking up at Julio. Julio stepped into the office. When he opened his mouth to speak Tommy interrupted.

"He's gotta get to yoga" Tommy laughed. Julio rolled his eyes and looked to Ghost who looked surprised.

"I don't have yoga. I'm going to meet y/n, we're gonna get together. We haven't hooked up for a minute. She's at yoga now, so I'm gonna go meet her there, take her to eat" Ghost nodded, then looked sideways at a chuckling Tommy.

"Well say hi to y/n for me, and don't worry about coming in tomorrow, if we need you we'll call"

"Thanks" Julio smiled. Ghost was always so understanding.

"I don't wanna see you until you can do the splits " Tommy shouted from the sofa as Julio left. Julio flipped him off as the office door closed.

***

Julio had dealt with a lot of scary people, people he wouldn't bat an eyelid at. However, walking into a yoga studio was an entirely different ball game. He immediately felt out of place.

The woman at the desk eyed him up, giving him a fake smile. "Can I help you?“ she closed her magazine and sat up.

Just as he was about to try and explain why he was in a yoga studio you appeared.

"Hey Erin, can I grab another towel" Erin got up and grabbed a towel for the pigeon holes behind her.

"Hey baby" you tiptoed across the cold floor to kiss Julio. It was at arm's length as you were covered in sweat. Erin hander you a towel, looking between you and Julio.

"He's just gonna wait for me while I'm in class" she nodded.

"Would you like a wheatgrass smoothie?" Erin held up her glass so Julio could see what she was referring.

"Err, I'm good thanks" you chuckled, grabbing his hand and pulling him through the studio.

"I don't get how people drink that green shit" Julio made a face like he was going to be sick.

"It's not too bad, just sit here. I'm right in there so you can see. I have another 45 minutes, so get comfy" you kissed him quickly again and rejoined the class.

***

The studio rooms were floor to ceiling glass with blinds that could be lowered. To let enough light into the class the instructors often left the blinds up.

Julio sat on the cushioned seats that were directly outside of the yoga studio. He shrugged off his jacket and watched.

"Whose that?“ the instructor asked as you jumped back onto your mat and into the pose.

"That's Julio, my boyfriend" you grinned. He grinned back at you.

"So on the next Side Angle Pose guys I want you to all wave at Julio" The instructor laughed. "I'll join you in the flow"

Everyone stood at the top of their mats to start the flow, and on the side angle pose everyone waved at Julio.

There was quiet laughter as Julio hesitantly waved back. "He's actually gonna kill me later" you laughed.

***

Julio was aware of what yoga was - something that rich white people did. He knew the Haitian's did too - after Drifty told him he should probably start meditation and try to centre himself in yoga - whatever that meant.

But watching you he had a newfound interest. Your spot in the class was by the glass in the second row, giving him an unrestricted view of you. It was cute seeing you so serious.

He was surprised to see how you made it all so easy, rarely faulting, even when you had to balance on one leg.

He watched you straighten and in a fluid motion pull off your top as you went into another pose, leaving you in leggings and a sports bra.

He'd seen you a lot less, but was enjoying how good your tits looked. Especially when you leant forward, giving him a nice view of your boobs in your sports bra - like they were being given to him on a plate.

He watched, impressed, as the class turned away from him, back to the glass. And while he could no longer see your front, it now meant he had a great view of ass as you went through the different poses, especially when you beat over.

Then when the whole class raised a leg in the air Julio cocked his head to one side with a raised eyebrow - he wasn't aware you could do the splits.

When everyone lay down and the instructor walked between everyone Julio was upset the class was over, he wanted to watch more.

He watched everyone get up and some started talking. Most rolled up their mats and put them at the end of the studio in the wooden pigeon holes and then left the class chatting amongst themselves. He watched you laugh and chat with the instructor and another girl. After a moment you threw waved to him again.

"So is waving at me part of the moves" Julio asked as you came out of the class, using one towel to wipe yourself.

"Only when there is a cute guy watching" he made to grab you but you stepped back.

"I'm so sweaty" you frowned

"I don't mind" he grinned.

"Trust me you would, even my underwear is soaked" you whispered.

"I like the sound of that. Wanna skip lunch"

"I'm actually starving. I was going so hard in there thinking about all the food I'm going to eat" you pout. Julio wanted to say something in response to your statement but didn't.

"Let me shower real quick and then we can go" you disappeared into the changing rooms, desperate to get out of your sweat drenched clothes.

***

When you came out of the changing room another class had started and Julio was hypnotised by it.

"Do you do that?" he asked nodding at the class, as he stood to put on his coat. It was suspension yoga.

"Yeah, I usually do that class now, but I'd rather see my boyfriend" You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a proper kiss. His hands found your ass, giving it a nice squeeze.

"Can you not wear the yoga pants" he whispered, as he leant back, hands still on your ass.

"They're wet" you grimaced at the thought of having to wear your leggings in their current state.

"How about I buy you a pair now, and you can change" you laughed hard, who knew Julio liked yoga pants so much. "Look they sell some here" He points to the rack in the reception area as you both walked through.

"I have a million pairs at home. Plus do you want me to wear yoga pants for everyone to see, or just you?" you could see Julio thinking it over.

"You're right" he grinned. "Just me" you gave him a satisfied grin and walked out of the studio.

***

The spot you were going to eat wasn't far from the studio so you walked. Julio kept his arm around you during the walk - occasionally letting his hand wander, as well as burying his face into the side of your next.

"Maybe we should get food to go" you laughed as you pushed Julio through the door of the restaurant. He was still trying to get you home.

"Just let me eat and then I'm all yours"

"We can do whatever you want" you smiled.

"Can we try some yoga" Julio wiggles eyebrows at you. "Maybe naked yoga" Julio whispered into your ear as the waiter approached you both.

**********************************************

@est1887 hope you like this 🤗

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[endless-whump]

Dangerous Territory Pt 2: Fury

Content warning: modern slavery, dehumanization, references to past conditioning and torture, brief reference to past sexual abuse/noncon, general whumper creepiness, violence, gun violence, injury to a child/child abuse (not described), there's a lot plz stay safe <3

here we gooo I'm so sorry this took so long

—--

The bruises on Luca’s neck were just starting to fade, and he reached up to fidget with the bandages scratching at his skin. Light poured in through the kitchen windows, hitting his back in a way that made him tired, lazily laying his head on his arms on the counter.

The knock on the door startled Luca, they didn't usually get visitors.  He knew Stephen had a lot of friends and coworkers, but they never came here, Stephen always left the house.

He looked up from where he was sitting, Marcus working on some homework across from him.  Stephen wasn’t home, so he wasn't sure what they were supposed to do in this situation.  Marcus seemed content to ignore the person knocking until it persisted, this time a little louder.

Marcus looked up, almost looking annoyed as the teen slid off the barstool, approaching the door and opening it.  Luca couldn’t see whoever was outside, but he could see the way Marcus’s shoulders tensed, taking a small step back in a defensive stance.  There were quiet voices talking before the door opened more, two men in suits walking in.  

Luca paled, freezing up as he recognized his handler.

He saw the familiar, deceivingly warm smile as he stepped into the house, taking off his hat as he greeted Marcus.  Luca couldn't make himself move, frozen like a deer caught in headlights as he stared at the two newcomers.  Trainers. n̷̥̼̅͑̓̈́̒̌̉̂͊͘͜t̴̨̳͚̩̰͔͎͍̺͋̍̌́̎̚r̴͉̪͕̭̪̻̣̀̕ͅư̵̡̜̫̟͖̠̗̯̪̤̑̈̀̒͑͂̊͝d̵̨̥̠̪̜̭͍̘͓̞̘͈̐̈̃̆͂̒ȩ̸̒r̴̡̢̪̙̳͚̗̫̠̜̈́̉͜s̴̜̮̤͉̅̉̅͌͆̋̈́̉̎̎̎́̓̕͝͠

“27765.” His old hander greeted.  The number made Luca snap to attention, shaking the bad thoughts away.  He couldn't help but wonder why they were here, in his owner’s home.  In his home.

“Is there an issue?”  Marcus asked.  He looked incredibly small next to the two men, moving closer to Luca in a way that was protective as well as seeking protection.  

“I’m Eugene Conner,” he greeted, giving the nervous teen a handshake. “Nothing serious, just an inspection of merchandise.  It's pretty standard, especially for refurbished pets.  Are you his primary owner, or is your parent-?”

“Yes.” Marcus cut in quickly.  “My dads name is on the paperwork, but I handle him primarily.  My dad,,he isn’t home much.”

The man nodded, opening a file he had in his hand.  Marcus shifted on his feet, clearly nervous but trying to conceal it.

“You’ll be interested to know that there's been some pet liberation activity going on recently.  Theres been some intel about it surfacing, and your address has been a contact of interest.” He looked up at the teen, who looked like he was ready to pass out.  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

Marcus quickly fixed his expression to one of concern and confusion.  His eyes flickered to Luca for just a moment, who was still sitting silently.  He wasn’t being spoken directly to yet or given a command, so stayed still.

“N,no sir, I don't.  I,,I thought that was only stuff they talked about on tv?  Aren’t there riots and stuff?” He asked.

Eugene stepped closer to Luca and he stifled a flinch. Never pull away from your owner, he heard echo in his mind, phantom hands in his hair as he remembered being shoved on the ground, a boot connecting with his side.

He remembered the man very, very well, he was the handler both for his original assignment and his refurbishment. He remembered this mans hands on him in more ways than one, a shiver going up his spine. He needed to be good, he needed to be good, he was good.

“There have been a few, but the bigger concern is more,,inside operations.  Pet liberation activists have been contacting owners, harassing them, trying to arrange escapes, you know how they are.”  Eugene kept his eyes on Luca, who tried to keep himself from shaking under the intense stare.  “We have our clients in our best interest, so we’re just,,checking in.”

Luca watched as the man grabbed his chin with a bruising grip, tilting his head higher to look at him.  The cuts from the knife had just started fading, and the handler eyed the bandages wrapped around his neck and arm, the bruising on his throat and face still prominent.

“Well, I, I haven't been contacted by anyone like that.  At least that my dads told me about.” Marcus said, too anxious to intervene.  He just needed to diffuse the situation and get these people out.

“I don’t mean to pry, but has he been troublesome for you?” He asked, tilting Luca’s chin up more. “Looks like he’s received quite the harsh discipline, not that it’s my business. I trained him, so I’m just curious on his status.”

“N,no, no sir.” Marcus rushes to say, paling a little. “It was an accident on his part, my dad,,my dad just got angry, it’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

The handler stared down at Luca, and he didn’t dare break eye contact with the man. There was an uncomfortable silence as he looked Luca over, a hint of something in his eyes that could be compared to suspicion and glee, like he wanted so bad for one of them to slip up.

“I don’t think I can really talk to you guys about much else without my dad here.” He tried, glancing nervously between the door and the man hovering over Luca.  He let go of Luca’s chin, as if daring him to try and lean or pull away.  He didn't.

He was good, he reminded himself.

Eugene finally stepped away, and Luca finally felt like he had been given a little room to breathe.  It reminded him painfully of the hands around his neck, the relief when the angry pressure was let up just a little.  The wheezy thank you he’d whisper to his handler, to his owner.  

“I understand, we’ll get out of your way, let you go about your day.” The handler said with a smile that almost made Luca shudder.

“We’ll be back later to discuss some things with your father, I think he might be interested in some,,adjustments we can offer. We have quite the skilled director for that department-“

“That won’t be necessary,” Marcus cut in. Eugene looked at him curiously, like he was trying to figure him out, the way he always did.

“Very well. I’ll check in with your father over the phone nonetheless. Just need to discuss some paperwork, adult stuff like that.”

He briskly backed away, putting his hat back on as he returned to his partner, who had been quietly standing by the door, glancing around the house.  Eugene’s long coat blew back a little as they opened the door, giving a nod to Marcus.  “It was a pleasure meeting you, kid.  I hope to meet you again, we had a nice chat.” He smiled that disturbing smile again, and then he was gone.

Luca vaguely registered Marcus locking the door, hands shaking.  His chest felt tight, like it was hard to breathe, and that's when all the adrenaline and energy left him, his knees buckling.  Marcus yelped in surprise as he heard Luca hit the floor hard, black dotting his vision.

Everything was a little bit of a blur after that, small hands trying to push him upright, a cool cloth to his head.  Everything hurt, inside and out, and it felt like a battle in Luca’s mind over his own will. 

This was his house.  No, he simply belonged to this house.  These were intruders, no, these were his handlers.  Marcus was his owner, no, he was a friend.

That thought was the only thing that seemed to stick in Luca’s head solidly.  Marcus was his friend.  Marcus was kind to him.  Marcus was just a kid.  Marcus was scared, in danger, he's-

Luca sat up abruptly.  The sky had grown darker, and he found himself on the couch in the living room, propped up by pillows.  Marcus was in danger?

He looked over to see the teen in the kitchen, cabinets open as he shoved various items in a bag.  Luca could see the tears on his face, he could see the way his hands were shaking, occasionally flinching when he dropped something before he scrambled to pick it up.

Marcus spotted Luca, relaxing a fraction as he rushed to wipe the tears from his eyes.  “L,Luca, you're awake.  We have to leave before my dad g, gets back, I- we need to leave.”

Luca was a little unsteady on his feet as he stood, approaching the counter and looking at Marcus curiously. “Leaving?” He asked.

“Y,yea, leaving, Luca.  I, I don't have time to contact that shelter ahead of time, b,but I have the address.”  The teenager looked frantic as he shoved food into the backpack he was carrying.

Luca reached out, setting a hesitant hand on Marcus’s shoulder, and he barely caught the kid as he barreled into him, hugging Luca as he broke down in a sob.  Luca froze, unsure of what to do at fist before slowly wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

They stood there in relative silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the howling of wind outside and Marcus’s soft, muffled sobs.  A thought crossed Luca’s mind that Marcus shouldn't be doing this.  He was too young to be dealing with all this,,this bullshit so early on in life.

The moment seemed to last forever and yet ended too soon as Marcus finally pulled away, sniffing and rubbing his eyes.  “I,I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.  W,we need to lea-”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Marcus froze, panic etched into his features.

Stephen was standing in the doorway, a bag of groceries in hand as he stares at the two, the kitchen a mess from Marcus desperately gathering supplies.

“I,,dad, your home, I-“ Marcus was lost for words, hands shaking as they held the backpack.

Stephens expression shifted as he seemed to come to a realization, and then a decision.

“Pet, leave us, I need to talk with my son.” Stephen said lowly, and Markus shrank back.

Luca didn’t budge

“Are you fucking deaf? I said leave.”

Luca barely had time to blink before Stephen was in his face, pushing him backwards.

“You thought you could just leave?  Brainwash my kid into letting you kidnap him?” He shoved Luca, who stumbled back, unsure of what to do.

Nothing happened for a second, the group just staring at each other before everything seemed to happen at once.  Luca’s head snapped to the side as Stephen struck him, and there was a scream.  A body slammed into him, stunning him momentarily as his back met the wall with a solid thud.  He didn’t resist as Stephen pulled him back and shoved him, head smacking against the wall.

He didn't offer any resistance when Stephen knee’d him in the stomach, sending burning pain through his old bruises as the air was knocked from his body.

He didn't offer any resistance when Stephen threw him to the floor, screaming incoherently as he delivered merciless blows, Luca tasting blood.

He didn't offer any resistance, not until Stephen turned his attention to Marcus.

The man leered over the small teen, and icy terror ran through Luca as he saw Stephen reach into the back of his wastband and pull out a gun.

Luca couldn't seem to move fast enough, struggling to get to his feet as pain radiated from his head, the room spinning.  He saw Stephens arm swing, a cry of pain, and that's when he broke, no, shattered.

Something took over him then, something that completely snapped whatever fucking training they burned into him.  

He launched at Stephen with more fury than he thought he’d ever had, or had been allowed to.  They had told him he wasn't allowed to be angry, not supposed to.  

He didn't need to be fucking good.

He didn't care.  He was going to protect this kid with as much fury as a person could hold.

They hit the ground hard, yelling and the smell of alcohol and shoving hands filling his senses, but Luca’s fury overrode that.  He was barely thinking a primal instinct guiding his movements with one motive in mind.  

Protect Marcus

And right now, there seemed to be one main threat, and one main solution.

He had to get the gun

Luca grappled with Stephen, a new desperation surging through him as his hands made contact with cold metal, and he barely registered what he was doing before he was trying to pull the gun towards him.

Stephen seemed to register what he was trying to do, kicking Luca back as the two fought for control over the weapon. Every inch of his body hurt, but still Luca refused to give up his grip on the gun. He felt the gun shift towards him, cold fear running through him as he gave one last push, and a gunshot rang out.

Silence hung in the air as Luca watched Stephen slump back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.  He stared at the gun, hands shaking.  His mind was blank with horror as he slowly stood, the weapon clattering to the ground. 

He couldn’t breathe, ears ringing.  Everything was frozen, even the hard pattering of rainfall muffled by the sheer adrenaline running through his veins.  He felt like he was on autopilot, still shaking as he turned away from the gasping man.

 He gently grabbed Marcus, who was staring, stunned, at his father on the ground.  Luca noted the bruise forming on his temple and the bust lip, taking the backpack from him and shouldering it, gently guiding the teen out of the kitchen.

“We have to go,” he said quietly, and Marcus just nodded, expression blank as he let Luca lead him without resistance.

“M,Marcus,” 

The teenager froze, staring at his father slumped on the floor, holding a hand to the gunshot wound.

“Pl,please, I’m s,sorry.  Marcus please,,”

Luca shielded him, moving into Marcus’ line of vision and looking him in the eyes.  

“Marcus, please,” he pleaded, and tears were running down his face as his gaze drifted from his father to Luca.

Luca put a hand at the back of his head, pulling him close to his side to shield him as he opened the front door, unable to look at the bleeding man on the kitchen floor without feeling sick.  He silently kept an arm around the teenager, the two walking out the door into the rainy night.

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