#what a spectacularly disastrous first time

[freyadragonlord]

Rating korean webnovels' protagonists' reaction to meeting another version of themselves for the first time

Kim Roksu: 10/10, very polite and helpful, worked to save his other self's world while also being thoughtful not to mess up his life and personal connections Kim Dokja: 0/10 tried to stab himself Han Yoojin: 0/10 tried to stab himself

[vaguely-concerned]

I wanted to write out a more condensed version of the Garashir thoughts I accumulated through my read of a stitch in time, because it really is driving me slightly nuts. so here we go!

I think my basic takeaway is something like: if you look at what's actually on the page as dialogue and not just the story garak tells himself internally of what has happened between them (which is basically 'I've fucked up somehow and I don't know how or why but something's broken here and I messed it up; I have nothing left of interest to offer him', pretty clearly going over it in his head like he would trying to figure out what he did wrong when tain locked him in a closet as a child), you kind of get the feeling that julian doesn't know what to do with the way garak flinches away from him whenever he tries to get closer or offer help. (which like. not for nothing but that's actually the dynamic between garak and mila too, but with garak's role switched to the mostly-resigned seeker of contact rather than the flincher-away. we all know garak’s daddy issues but I think the mommy issues at work are doing some gulf stream shit under the surface as well lol.) so julian starts hesitating in seeking out contact in the first place, nevermind asking him for anything more when garak's also clearly falling apart mentally and seems unreachable in the first place. and Julian also doesn't want to mess this up and make something already fraught and painful even worse; he still wants to help! he always wants to help, that’s just who he is, he keeps trying through the whole book. and when garak mostly-gently but reflexively and firmly rebuffs him each time he tries… after a while it seems like he doesn't think he's welcome, or that he's imposing and garak doesn't really want him there — that he's just humoring him or something when he does let him in, just like garak was so afraid palandine was doing with him in the beginning. it’s only in the final scene between them that garak invites him in and asks for help on his own initiative. 

“I’m pleased you stopped by”/”No, you’re not,” he said quietly. ‘I really won’t take up any more of your time’. “You see, this is so difficult, Garak. I know what a private person you are, and how you detest people meddling in your affairs….”. “Your holosuite program. The one that allows me to visit the traumas of my childhood.”/“I hesitate to suggest this, remembering how you reacted the last time … but, yes, I feel it could make a difference,” the Doctor gamely admitted. (Julian I love you so much. Eternal optimist hours. Keep it up it’s going to get you spectacularly laid if you just get on that shuttle to Cardassia.) All these moments do not read to me as someone who has no interest in continuing or deepening this relationship (maybe the opposite, in fact), it gives me more the sense of someone who feels he keeps putting his foot in his mouth and making the damage worse no matter what he tries, and not knowing what else to do but to back off to save them both more pain. (he also needs help and support, but he’s not going to go ask it of someone who’s clearly in no position to give it (on account of visibly falling apart even more than usual). And also because the good doctor is such a hypocrite lol ‘of course you’re worth asking for and receiving help!! I’m just fine tho don’t worry about me *light is slowly dying in his eyes behind the smile as the seasons go on*’. Stiff upper lip to the point of psychological breakdown-off (cross-cultural, competitive))  

and the most painful thing to me is that after their disastrous tea party in garak’s shop, at the very least, garak clearly realizes he's hurting julian by keeping him out (But as to the question of which group suffers the most…), and he desperately wants to stop hurting him but he just doesn't know how!!! he's never learned how to close the distance! he's been locked completely into himself by the way tain shaped him and doesn't know how to get out of the closet so to speak yet! ('...am I not. *supposed* to pretend to be functional and have no needs. is that not like. my entire job interpersonally. I am confused.') it’s something Tolan already observes in him and grieves over when he comes home from Bamarren, and the years since have uh not helped with that particular problem lol. for all he longs for it, intimacy is like a hot stove to him; he can’t help but reach out, and he can’t help but flinch away when he actually comes into contact with it. almost the worst part is that I think Julian can tell some of that too and sort of understands it/doesn't hold it against him, and it just makes it even sadder, somehow. they both move so carefully around each other through this, because even in the middle of all that they really do try to be kind to each other the best they know how and it fucks me up so bad. which makes it even crazier and more touching that all of asit is basically garak processing his shit until he can get to the last line honestly — 'You're always welcome, Doctor'. he pulled a full lizardly mr darcy in the post-apocalypse here, he got around to starting to fix himself at least partly to be in a place where he could be able to meet Julian in the ways he needs if he wants that from him. And that drives me utterly insane thanks for asking!!! WILD BOOK COMPLETELY UNHINGED 300+ PAGE DECLARATION OF LOVE AND INTIMACY WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL

(this post started life as a tag ramble under @spocks-kaathyra‘s wonderful post about Julian’s side of it over here, but — as I’m sure you'll be astonished to learn at this point — I found I somehow had even more things to say, my neurons boileth over perpetually and it seems I just have to live with that)

[lulublack90]

Prompt 5 - Awful First Meeting

@wolfstarmicrofic May 5, word count 688

Sirius spied him from across the room. There were much more attractive people at the party but something about him caught his eye. He watched him for a while, scoping him out. The man wandered near the wall and Sirius made him move. 

He slid up to the tall man and braced his hands either side of him against the wall. 

“Hi there sexy, how’s it going?” This move had a 100% success rate for Sirius. Once, they got a look at his pretty face, and he turned on his charms. They were putty in his hands. This time, however, backfired spectacularly. 

The man tensed and then, with strength that surprised Sirius, shoved him away before shouting. 

“Fuck off!” Silencing the party as he stormed out of the room. A few of the party goers stared at him and snickered to each other, but most just went back to dancing. 

Regulus’s best friend, Barty, sidled up beside Sirius. 

“Yeah, that’s Remus. He doesn’t like it when people box him in, breathe his air or basically get in his space.” 

“No shit,” Sirius glowered at him. Barty didn’t even bat an eyelid. Instead, he ran a finger down Sirius’s arm and said, 

“But I’m all about being shoved up against walls.” He winked at Sirius as he rejoined the party, getting lost in the crowd. Sirius was mad, but he was not that mad. No way could he handle Barty’s craziness on top of his own. 

He ran out of the room, hoping to find Remus and apologise. 

“Hey!” He yelled down the street at the retreating figure. “Hey, wait up!” Remus didn’t slow down. Sirius was out of breath by the time he caught up with his long strides. “Hey. I’m. Sirius.” He gasped between breaths. “I. Just. Wanted. To. Apologise. For what. I did. Back there.” He pointed in the general direction of the party. 

“Don’t care.” Remus said coldly as he folded himself into an ancient Vauxhall Corsa and sped away. 

“Do you want his number?” Evan said, popping out of the bushes. Sirius jumped out of his boots. 

“What the fuck, Evan! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” Sirius clutched his chest. Evan’s mouth spread into a toothy grin. 

“Nope, just trying to steal your boots!” He bent down and snatched them up as he ran back into the party. Sirius didn’t even bother chasing him down, he’d get them back eventually. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His night was not going to plan. 

He was about to head back into the party and find out what Evan had planned for his poor boots when a car stopped beside him. 

“Were you just mugged?” Remus asked, after rolling the window down. Sirius barked out a laugh. 

“No, it was just Evan. I’ll get them back.” Sirius thought while he had Remus’s attention he’d push his luck. “So can I get your number then? I really would like to make up for that disastrous introduction in there.” He put on his best, 'I’m sorry, please love me' face, and Remus gave in. 

“Fine, give me your phone.” Sirius gleefully unlocked it and handed it over. Remus reached a hand out of his window and took it. 

“Gee,” He said, smiling wickedly. “It sure would be a shame if you were mugged twice tonight,” And he sped away, cackling. 

“OI!” Sirius yelled as he chased after the car in his socks. The car stopped halfway down the street and Sirius collapsed in the open window, reaching in to take his phone back. He couldn’t even get mad because the smile that greeted him made it all worth it. 

“Go get your shoes, and you can treat me to a McDonald's.” Sirius didn’t waste any time and rushed back into the party, tackled Evan to the ground, took back his boots, waved at his brother and almost dived head first into the little car. 

As Remus pulled away from the kerb, Sirius thought maybe his terrible night would turn around. That was until he found out how much Remus could eat.    

[rinixo]

here we are, now

Howzer/Jedi!Reader | 2.4k | Rated E | smut, afab reader, inexperienced reader, PIV sex, obsessive thoughts, pining, yearning, Howzer calls Reader 'kid'

Your masters had often warned that your enthusiasm would one day lead you into treacherous situations. They weren't wrong, but the danger you faced now was likely beyond anything they had imagined.

read on ao3

Your masters had often warned that your enthusiasm would one day lead you into treacherous situations. They weren't wrong, but the danger you faced now was likely beyond anything they had imagined.

Rain lashed against the walls of the abandoned house where you and Clone Captain Howzer had taken refuge. The mission had gone disastrously off course.

As a Jedi, you were accustomed to working with clone troopers, but this was your first solo command without a senior knight. It was also the first time you had been sent out with just one other person, instead of a small squad.

The war had created desperate situations, and this mission was no exception. While the situation on Ryloth was not as treacherous as other fronts, it still provided its fair share of battle opportunities. You and Howzer were tasked with extracting assets from a separatist holdout, one of many popping up across the planet’s surface. Nervous but eager to prove yourself, you had been selected to lead the mission, with the seasoned captain deferring to your leadership with grace. Everything had been going smoothly until a few hours ago when a moment of reckless action led you straight into a droid ambush.

Deflecting blaster fire with your saber, you watched as Howzer tried to break through their defenses. All seemed manageable until a clever droid launched a grenade towards your position. Howzer heroically threw himself in front of you, blocking the grenade with his armored body. To your horror, he rolled away, and you braced for the explosion, only to see the grenade release a puff of green-tinged smoke instead.

Chalking the dud grenade up to luck, you nonetheless were forced to flee before more reinforcements arrived. With the storm preventing extraction, you decided to spend the night here and attempt the mission again at first light.

Howzer sat across from you, slowly removing his armor. You noticed how he winced, and his murmur of "I’m okay. Just sore," did little to ease your concern.

Though you had been stationed on Ryloth for several cycles, you had worked with Howzer only a handful of times before this mission. You knew he had been assigned as your second in command on purpose - he was known for his ability to get jobs done without any major fanfare. You felt guilty for mucking up what should have been another routine mission, knowing you could expect chastisement from your elders back at the temple.

A hiss made you look up. You had an uncanny gift for sensing others' emotions more acutely than most Jedi. Clones of higher rank, like Howzer, were harder to read, but you had been feeling waves of discomfort and tension from him since settling down. Had he sustained an injury you hadn’t seen?

“I know some healing arts,” you offered amicably. “Perhaps I can offer some relief—”

“No,” Howzer interrupted, his bluntness making you blink.

Your heart sank, fearing he was irritated with you. Throughout your life, you had been told you could be too much, too present, too helpful. ‘Stop hovering,’ they said. ‘Stop trying to fix problems before they even happen.’ But how could you? You felt everything so deeply - people’s anxiety, their fears and their excitement. Helping was second nature to you, and unfortunately so was the tunnel vision that came along with it.

This mission had been a test of your ability to show restraint and patience, to gauge your aptitude to lead squads on your own without needing someone else to check you. Instead, it had been a textbook example of how spectacularly you could get things to go sideways. All is as the Force wills it, you had been told time and time again. All you could think is why the Force insisted on making things so hard for you in particular.

Hours later, after a small meal, the rain continued to roar heavily. You had been lying in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, unable to fall asleep. The oppressive emotions emanating from the man across the room were overwhelming. Discomfort and tension had morphed into intense heat and strain, mingled with a pain that was impossible for you to ignore.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to meditate on the sound of the rain to distract your senses. The whirlwind of feeling emanating from Howzer was overpowering, however, and you let out a defeated groan. Resting was not an option.

You rose from the bed and approached the clone. Howzer hadn’t lain down; he was hunched over on the edge of his cot, his arms dangling loosely over his thighs.

“You’ve gotten worse,” you said, clearing your throat. He glanced up, concern etched on his face. “I can sense it.”

“My apologies, commander —” he began, but you raised a hand to stop him.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. It’s my fault you’re in this situation. I made a mistake, and you paid the price.”

“It’s my job, ma’am. My duty.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Clones and their damned built-in sense of self-sacrifice. All too willing to give life and limb, hardly thinking about themselves when it came to the safety of others.

“Please, let me try to help you, Howzer,” you asked again. “If not for yourself, then for the mission?”

He swallowed roughly. “With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t think this is something you can help with.”

“Don’t be so sure,” you replied with a half-smile. Howzer sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded reluctantly.

Closing your eyes, you knelt in front of Howzer and gently placed your hand on his shoulder. You reached out with the Force, pressing softly against the barrier of his consciousness. What was usually a strong wall of resistance had worn down over time, and with a gentle nudge, you slipped through.

Instantly, you were bombarded with raw emotions. You felt the anxious flutter of his pulse as if it were your own. You struggled to navigate the turbulent sea of sensations coursing through Howzer—expectation, dread, passion—all barely restrained by a fraying thread.

For a fleeting moment, Howzer’s essence became yours, and you gasped as you uncovered the source of his turmoil. Desire surged through his veins, colored dark green like the smoke from the grenade. It pulsed - no, throbbed, igniting his synapses like wildfire. Stillness was agony, the brush of your hand on his shoulder like a salve.

You opened your eyes, pulling away. Howzer was tense, coiled tightly like a snake ready to strike. A bead of sweat trickled from his brow, his pupils dilated and dark in the dim light.

“The grenade,” you said softly. “It did this?”

“Yes,” Howzer replied shortly. A knot of concern coiled in your stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologized again. “I-I’ve never encountered a toxin like this. I don’t know how to help you.”

Howzer breathed out roughly through his nose. “Didn’t think so. It’s an enhanced libidinous agent. They’re meant to be thrown into air vents, gas out whole rooms. And I took a whole one straight to the face.”

“You’ve seen these before?” You queried, and he nodded. A million questions were begging to be asked, but you resisted and kept to the most pertinent ones.

“Do you know how to make it stop?”

“Usually you can just wait it out,” Howzer mumbled. “But, uh - it’s…very hard to ignore.”

You thought for a moment, piecing things together. Your experiences with sex were limited to the lewd holonovels your fellows had snuck in and distributed amongst each other like contraband, and the occasional burst of feeling from people thinking loudly about their own escapades. A poor substitute, you knew, but it would have to do.

“If we have sex, will that help?” You offered.

Howzer choked at your blunt suggestion, eyes widening in shock.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, patiently waiting for his response. All the while, you could still feel the emotions rolling off his body. He was making a very pointed effort not to stare at your chest, or thighs, or stars forbid your lips. You were suddenly self-conscious in a way you had never felt before.

“We couldn’t - do you even understand what you’re saying?” Howzer asked, incredulity coloring his words.

You nodded. “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. You just hoped that with his mind as impacted as it was, the fact that you were a virgin and had never so much as kissed anyone before would go unnoticed.

“You’re a Jedi,” he said weakly, running out of ways to give you an out.

“The code forbids attachment, not sex,” you said with nervous amusement.

Howzer swallows roughly, staring up at the ceiling. His hands clench and unclench, and after a moment he looks back down at where you’re sat and nods shortly before leaning back in invitation.

You climb into his lap carefully, feeling the heat of his skin through his blacks. He’s tense, and as you settle down you try to project as much calmness and ease as you can.

“Is this ok?” You ask quietly, and hear him take a sharp inhale. You take his arms tightening around you as a ‘yes’. Leaning forward, you let out a soft hum as he unexpectedly presses his flushed face against your neck. You hear him inhale deeply, the hesitancy in his grip loosening as he drinks in the scent of your arousal. “Sweet” he says quietly, mouthing roughly against the arch of your throat.

The way Howzer touches you feels strange to your inexperienced mind. His hands slide under your top, rough palms massaging your breasts. He kisses just under your ear, making your head droop to the side to give him more access.

You can feel him, hot and hard in his lap. Nervous anticipation floods you to your core, and you shift experimentally. A choked moan from the man currently nipping at your exposed shoulder confirms that it was the right move.

Feeling braver, and trying to pretend you know what you’re doing, you move one hand down from his shoulder, you slip it under his drawers. He chokes again as you stroke him to his full length, tip leaking what feels like endless thin liquid.

With what feels like practiced ease, Howzer slips your leggings down your waist to pool around one ankle. Readjusting you in his lap, he lines himself up with your cunt. Not once does he take his eyes off your face, gaze intense and burning.

The pressure of penetration surprises you. “Oh!” You say softly as Howzer spreads your thighs further apart.

“There we go,” he mutters lowly, more to himself than to you. “Just like that- fuck -“ His head falls back, eyes closed as your soft heat engulfs him fully. His cock pulses strong enough for you to feel it, his abdomen twitching, and you realized that he had just cum from that first instance of penetration.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans again, and with his hands on your hips begins moving you back and forth, up and down. His cock was still hard as iron inside of you, and you grasped his biceps to steady yourself against his desperate pace.

Curious, you reach out with the force again, slipping easily into the wild bramble of his thoughts. It’s impossible to parse out any one singular feeling, his lust-addled brain focused on chasing its relief through your body. It’s starting to feel good for you too, and with one particularly harsh thrust, you mewl. There’s something bright building in you, centered where Howzer is rocking into you.

The sounds you make snap Howzer’s gaze back to your face. He moves one hand to grasp your chin, holding your head still so that he can slot his mouth over yours. With his touch, you are gifted with flashes of thought, and emotion - the way you move effortlessly through battle, the way the light catches the myriad of colors in your irises -

You had never noticed, but he had been noticing you for a while now. Always seeking you out, wondering if you’ve come back from your missions unscathed. The mention of your name makes his chest tighten. He’s spent many a night in his bunk thinking about the plush softness of your lips, your hands, your cunt-

Howzer is infatuated with you, you realize as you begin to cum. His earlier tense refusal wasn’t due to irritation but dread - dread at the thought of finally being able to have you but never truly have you. He despairs at the thought of this being the only time he’ll ever be able to feel you against him, be inside of you.

It’s pure, unadulterated yearning, and it makes you shudder. Your clothes have come completely off at this point, and Howzer moves to lay you down on the cot, not once leaving the tight heat of your cunt.

“Perfect,” he moans into your shoulder, one of your thighs hoisted under a strong forearm. “I knew you’d be, my perfect girl -“

More flashes, memories of him watching you train. Hiding a smile as tales of your latest mishaps are passed around the barracks. He loves your eagerness and your determination. He knows you are capable of great things - if only he was allowed to get you on your own, there’s so much he could show you…

You gulp air, pressed down against the mattress as Howzer ruts into you. You’ve unintentionally made a bridge between your two consciousnesses, the lines between you quickly blurring away until you can’t tell where his mind ends and yours begins. He pours his obsession into you with every rock of his hips.

Pushing on his shoulders, you make him lift up off you. He looks down at you, eyes hooded. You can see yourself in his gaze - bare, slick with sweat and other fluids, lips swollen. Howzer mutters your name before lowering his mouth to kiss the side of your jaw. His pace slows, arms wrapping around you in an embrace. Rolling to the side, he hugs you close to his body, one of your legs thrown over his hip as he continues to chase his release.

“You’re gonna kill me, kid,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your chin. Your eyes flutter shut, allowing yourself to be drowned in the sea of his affection.

Would the two of you regret this in the morning? Perhaps, but as you reached up to tangle your hands in his hair, you pushed those thoughts aside to let yourself be present in the moment. All is as the Force wills it.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The first thing to say about the hate and scorn currently directed at the mainstream US media is that they worked hard to earn it. They’ve done so by failing, repeatedly, determinedly, spectacularly to do their job, which is to maintain their independence, inform the electorate, and speak truth to power. While the left has long had reasons to dismiss centrist media, and the right has loathed it most when it did do its job well, the moderates who are furious at it now seem to be something new – and a host of former editors, media experts and independent journalists have been going after them hard this summer.

Longtime journalist James Fallows declares that three institutions – the Republican party, the supreme court, and the mainstream political press – “have catastrophically failed to ‘meet the moment’ under pressure of [the] Trump era”. Centrist political reformer and columnist Norm Ornstein states that these news institutions “have had no reflection, no willingness to think through how irresponsible and reckless so much of our mainstream press and so many of our journalists have been and continue to be”.

Most voters, he says, “have no clue what a second Trump term would actually be like. Instead, we get the same insipid focus on the horse race and the polls, while normalizing abnormal behavior and treating this like a typical presidential election, not one that is an existential threat to democracy.”

Lamenting the state of the media recently on X, Jeff Jarvis, another former editor and newspaper columnist, said: “What ‘press’? The broken and vindictive Times? The newly Murdochian Post? Hedge-fund newspaper husks? Rudderless CNN or NPR? Murdoch’s fascist media?”

These critics are responding to how the behemoths of the industry seem intent on bending the facts to fit their frameworks and agendas. In pursuit of clickbait content centered on conflicts and personalities, they follow each other into informational stampedes and confirmation bubbles.

They pursue the appearance of fairness and balance by treating the true and the false, the normal and the outrageous, as equally valid and by normalizing Republicans, especially Donald Trump, whose gibberish gets translated into English and whose past crimes and present-day lies and threats get glossed over. They neglect, again and again, important stories with real consequences. This is not entirely new – in a scathing analysis of 2016 election coverage, the Columbia Journalism Review noted that “in just six days, The New York Times ran as many cover stories about Hillary Clinton’s emails as they did about all policy issues combined in the 69 days leading up to the election” – but it’s gotten worse, and a lot of insiders have gotten sick of it.

In July, ordinary people on social media decided to share information about the rightwing Project 2025 and did a superb job of raising public awareness about it, while the press obsessed about Joe Biden’s age and health. NBC did report on this grassroots education effort, but did so using the “both sides are equally valid” framework often deployed by mainstream media, saying the agenda is “championed by some creators as a guide to less government oversight and slammed by others as a road map to an authoritarian takeover of America”. There is no valid case it brings less government oversight.

In an even more outrageous case, the New York Times ran a story comparing the Democratic and Republican plans to increase the housing supply – which treated Trump’s plans for mass deportation of undocumented immigrants as just another housing-supply strategy that might work or might not. (That it would create massive human rights violations and likely lead to huge civil disturbances was one overlooked factor, though the fact that some of these immigrants are key to the building trades was mentioned.)

Other stories of pressing concern are either picked up and dropped or just neglected overall, as with Trump’s threats to dismantle a huge portion of the climate legislation that is both the Biden administration’s signal achievement and crucial for the fate of the planet. The Washington Post editorial board did offer this risibly feeble critique on 17 August: “It would no doubt be better for the climate if the US president acknowledged the reality of global warming – rather than calling it a scam, as Mr Trump has.”

While the press blamed Biden for failing to communicate his achievements, which is part of his job, it’s their whole job to do so. The Climate Jobs National Resource Center reports that the Inflation Reduction Act has created “a combined potential of over $2tn in investment, 1,091,966 megawatts of clean power, and approximately 3,947,670 jobs”, but few Americans have any sense of what the bill has achieved or even that the economy is by many measures strong.

Last winter, the New York Times columnist Paul Krugman, who has a Nobel prize in economics, told Greg Sargent on the latter’s Daily Blast podcast that when he writes positive pieces about the Biden economy, his editor asks “don’t you want to qualify�� it; “aren’t people upset by X, Y and Z and shouldn’t you be acknowledging that?”

Meanwhile in an accusatory piece about Kamala Harris headlined When your opponent calls you ‘communist,’ maybe don’t propose price controls?, a Washington Post columnist declares in another case of bothsiderism: “Voters want to blame someone for high grocery bills, and the presidential candidates have apparently decided the choices are either the Biden administration or corporate greed. Harris has chosen the latter.” The evidence that corporations have jacked up prices and are reaping huge profits is easy to find, but facts don’t matter much in this kind of opining.

It’s hard to gloat over the decline of these dinosaurs of American media, when a free press and a well-informed electorate are both crucial to democracy. The alternatives to the major news outlets simply don’t reach enough readers and listeners, though the non-profit investigative outfit ProPublica and progressive magazines such as the New Republic and Mother Jones, are doing a lot of the best reporting and commentary.

Earlier this year, when Alabama senator Katie Britt gave her loopy rebuttal to Biden’s State of the Union address, it was an independent journalist, Jonathan Katz, who broke the story on TikTok that her claims about a victim of sex trafficking contained significant falsehoods. The big news outlets picked up the scoop from him, making me wonder what their staffs of hundreds were doing that night.

A host of brilliant journalists young and old, have started independent newsletters, covering tech, the state of the media, politics, climate, reproductive rights and virtually everything else, but their reach is too modest to make them a replacement for the big newspapers and networks. The great exception might be historian Heather Cox Richardson, whose newsletter and Facebook followers give her a readership not much smaller than that of the Washington Post. The tremendous success of her sober, historically grounded (and footnoted!) news summaries and reflections bespeaks a hunger for real news.

Rebecca Solnit is a Guardian US columnist. She is the author of Orwell’s Roses and co-editor with Thelma Young Lutunatabua of the climate anthology Not Too Late: Changing the Climate Story from Despair to Possibility

[kartaylirnaak]

Hi there !! So can you share about the care and feeding of your Marshal Commander for the WIP game ? 👀

Oh, this one! This is an older WIP that grew out of an idea and chat with a few others in a discord server. The opening lines of this fic pretty much explain what it is.

The following document is the manual on the care and feeding of Marshal Commander Cody of the Third Systems Army, 7th Sky Corps, 212th Attack Battalion, and Ghost Company. Collated within are various strategies, recommendations, and advice on how to look after our favourite droid punching, antenna hoarding, lightsaber retrieving, tactical genius of a vod.

The idea is that it's full of all sorts of information, context, and stories about Cody. I had hoped to post the first chapter for Cody Day (2/2/24) but IRL stuff got in the way and like everything I write, it ended up growing much, much larger than I had originally planned. Here's a few different sections from what I have written.

Part of the Introduction

Cody is aware of the existence of this manual but is barred from viewing it or knowing any of its contents. He will still try to get the information out of you. Do not let him.  

Part of the general section in the Batchmates chapter

Apart from the Corries (see the section on Fox below), whenever the 212th works with any of these units, make sure Cody gets time to spend with his respective batchmate. This should happen anyway as they’ll usually end up double bunking and sharing quarters but try to keep distractions to a minimum. Time spent grumbling over flimsiwork together is still better than being comm’d to come and deal with a prank that has gone disastrously wrong. Good luck trying to explain to your very grumpy Marshal Commander and his equally grumpy batchmate (who is also a Commander or Marshal Commander) why the bunks in Barracks 6C are on fire and every visible surface in Barracks 8E is covered in a fine powdery glitter. You’ll be on sanitation duty for so long that you might as well live in the freshers and become one with the mouse droids. 

Wolffe's section in the Batchmates chapter

After Rex (see section below), the batchmate that Cody is more likely to see is Wolffe. Unfortunately, these instances will probably be fleeting and unscheduled, as the 104th spends most of its days bouncing around the universe conducting search and rescue operations. So if they’ve turned up, then something has probably gone very wrong. This does have a tendency to happen as, much to Cody’s chagrin, his Jedi has a particularly bad habit of hurling himself into dangerous situations because it’s “the will of the Force, my dear”. The 212th also works with the 501st quite often and something always goes off the rails when Skywalker is involved. When it all goes spectacularly badly wrong, expect to see the 104th turn up and laugh. (You mean save the day – Wolffe). This doesn’t give Wolffe many opportunities for down time with vode from other battalions as he’s either pulling people out of the fire, coordinating the aftermath, or debriefing on where it all went wrong before flying off to save the next bunch of sorry bastards. Your best chance of finding time for Cody and Wolffe to catch up is by suggesting to their Jedi that they should take the opportunity to meditate together. Both of them are fully aware that this is absolute bullshit and will willingly indulge it as they’re both far too fond of their respective commanders. Sadly, the situation won’t always allow for this. For the times when everything is even more chaotic than usual, the best you’re going to manage is for Cody and Wolffe to be working together and perhaps get a few words together before Wolffe disappears again. While not optimal, it at least gives both of them the chance to visually confirm the other is still alive and hasn’t added to their facial scar collection. They’re currently both at 1-1 and are not allowed to add to it. Wolffe also brings out a particular kind of feral in Cody. Don’t be surprised to see scratches, bruises or bite marks that have been hastily smeared with bacta after they’ve spent time together. This is either from them beating the crap out of each other for fun or railing each other into the floor. Or both. Just continue on like you haven’t seen a giant hickey on your CO’s neck and politely suggest to Cody that he might want to pull up the collar of his blacks. You should hopefully avoid being eviscerated by his glare. Hopefully.     

I'm rather fond of this WIP, keep forgetting about it, and intimidated by it. This is another one that I'm not sure will ever see the light of day, even though I've written most of the Introduction, Batchmates chapter and an entire section on what to do when Cody gets in The Fighty Mood™

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

The Candymakers by Wendy Mass

Four children have been chosen to compete in a national competition to find the tastiest confection in the country. Who will invent a candy more delicious than the Oozing Crunchorama or the Neon Lightning Chew?

Logan, the Candymaker's son, who can detect the color of chocolate by touch alone?

Miles, the boy who is allergic to merry-go-rounds and the color pink?

Daisy, the cheerful girl who can lift a fifty-pound lump of taffy like it's a feather?

Or Philip, the suit-and-tie wearing boy who's always scribbling in a secret notebook?

This sweet, charming, and cleverly crafted story, told from each contestant's perspective, is filled with mystery, friendship, and juicy revelations.

Tom's Midnight Garden by Philippa Pearce

When his brother catches measles, Tom is sent away for the summer to stay with his uncle and aunt and is thoroughly fed up about it. What a boring summer it's going to be. But then, lying in bed one night, he hears the old grandfather clock in the hall strike the very strange hour of 13 o'clock. What can it mean? As Tom creeps downstairs and opens the door, he finds out...a magical garden, a new playmate, and the adventure of a lifetime.

Things Not Seen by Andrew Clemens

Bobby Phillips is an average fifteen-year-old boy. Until the morning he wakes up and can't see himself in the mirror. Not blind, not dreaming. Bobby is just plain invisible...

There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to Bobby's new condition; even his dad the physicist can't figure it out. For Bobby that means no school, no friends, no life. He's a missing person. Then he meets Alicia. She's blind, and Bobby can't resist talking to her, trusting her. But people are starting to wonder where Bobby is. Bobby knows that his invisibility could have dangerous consequences for his family and that time is running out. He has to find out how to be seen again before it's too late.

Five Children by E. Nesbit

The five children find a cantankerous sand fairy, a psammead, in a gravel pit. Every day 'It' will grant each of them a wish that lasts until sunset, often with disastrous consequences.

Once by Morris Gleitzman

Everybody deserves to have something good in their life. At least Once.

Once I escaped from an orphanage to find Mum and Dad.

Once I saved a girl called Zelda from a burning house.

Once I made a Nazi with a toothache laugh.

My name is Felix. This is my story.

The Chronicles of Ancient Darkness by Michelle Paver

Six thousand years ago. Evil stalks the land. Only twelve-year-old Torak and his wolf-cub companion can defeat it. Their journey together takes them through deep forests, across giant glaciers, and into dangers they never imagined.

In this page-turning, original, and spectacularly told adventure story, Torak and Wolf are joined by an incredible cast of characters as they battle to save their world, in this first book in the Chronicles of Ancient Darkness.

All-of-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor

It's the turn of the century in New York's Lower East Side and a sense of adventure and excitement abounds for five young sisters - Ella, Henny, Sarah, Charlotte and Gertie. Follow along as they search for hidden buttons while dusting Mama's front parlor, or explore the basement warehouse of Papa's peddler's shop on rainy days. The five girls enjoy doing everything together, especially when it involves holidays and surprises. But no one could have prepared them for the biggest surprise of all!

Matt Cruse by Kenneth Oppel

Matt Cruse is a cabin boy on the Aurora, a huge airship that sails hundreds of feet above the ocean, ferrying wealthy passengers from city to city. It is the life Matt's always wanted; convinced he's lighter than air, he imagines himself as buoyant as the hydrium gas that powers his ship. One night he meets a dying balloonist who speaks of beautiful creatures drifting through the skies. It is only after Matt meets the balloonist's granddaughter that he realizes that the man's ravings may, in fact, have been true, and that the creatures are completely real and utterly mysterious.

A Tale Dark & Grimm by Adam Gidwitz

In this mischievous and utterly original debut, Hansel and Gretel walk out of their own story and into eight other classic Grimm-inspired tales. As readers follow the siblings through a forest brimming with menacing foes, they learn the true story behind (and beyond) the bread crumbs, edible houses, and outwitted witches.

Fairy tales have never been more irreverent or subversive as Hansel and Gretel learn to take charge of their destinies and become the clever architects of their own happily ever after.

Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris

Christian is gaga for Princess Marigold. But he's just a commoner, and no match for royalty. Heck, he lives in a cave with a troll! And now he's discovered another reason to put his love-soggy heart on Queen Olympia is scheming to take over the kingdom--and she'll bump off her own daughter to do it. Can Christian foil her diabolical plans?

[peony-pearl]

@khoc-week

Day 3: Connections

Nimue starts off her story with two main connections: her mother, Estelle, and her love, Yen Sid. However, after her home is swallowed by darkness because of Yen Sid's tampering with her experiments, Nimue finds herself alone in the Realm of Darkness for three decades.

The first person she makes a new connection with is Merlock. They quickly become a fearsome duo on their journey so Nimue can take revenge against Yen Sid and Merlock can benefit from the spoils of the sorcerer's magic. Over time, their alliance deepens into a friendship that neither are willing to admit, and yet it's obvious to everyone around them that they're operating on a level no one else can.

Chaos finds Nimue and Merlock at the behest of Maleficent, who has been betrayed by Merlock. However, when he finds them, he has no real interest in turning them in, as that means the fun will be over. He tags along on their journeys, intrigued to watch them as they either succeed or crash and burn spectacularly on their mission.

Owen has been in Traverse Town for several months, keeping eye on the wife and infant son of his employer, David Xanatos, after an experiment with some Heartless proved disastrous. Knowing that Fox and young Alexander are safe (which was Xanatos' one order to Owen), Owen is now eager to go out and search for him. Nimue asks him why he is so eager to follow the orders of a master he no longer serves - Owen does not flinch when he answers that Xanatos is more than a master, but treats Owen as much as family as Fox and Alex. Chaos is also drawn to Owen, and soon finds out why, as Owen is the alter ego of his old friend, the trickster Puck.

Mint is a disgraced princess who has lost her title, and is bound and determined to get it back. She and Nimue often clash on the subject of leadership, but Mint's resolve and fearlessness garners respect. (I made her hair the wrong shade of pink I'm sorry)

Hollander is a scientist who was once Ansem the Wise's partner, both in research and romance. However, when Ansem decided to abandon the experiments on the heart, Hollander was deeply upset. The scientist went on to aid Xehanort and the apprentices to set up their laboratories, but when it came time for them to destroy Radiant Garden and form Organization XIII they left him behind. In an effort to perfect his own experiments, Hollander used himself as a test subject, and is now slowly succumbing to the Darkness.

Magnifico is found when Owen can sense his presence locked inside of a mirror (as Puck himself has ties to a magic mirror). Magnifico is given the opportunity to join and reap the spoils of Yen Sid's magic if he chooses to aid their cause. He and Nimue bond over lost homes.

Harle is a mysterious girl with the appearance of a jester. She is cool, collected, intelligent and quick with words. Her dark powers are intriguing and very strong, yet she has an air of maturity and romanticism. She enjoys spending time with Chaos, Puck and Mint making mischief, but she is also a reliable source of wisdom for Nimue and Merlock. She probably has the most brain cells of the group alongside Owen.

Finally, there's Roxanne, who has been studying to be a sage of the light, but after a chance altercation with Nimue and Merlock (where she touches Nimue's keyblade), she finds herself able to summon her own keyblade. It's a symbol to Yen Sid that Nimue still has some light in her heart, and when Nimue sees she has accidentally bequeathed to this girl, she can't help but see herself when she was young: stalwart and innocent and daring. Nimue gives Roxanne a hard time when they cross paths, but Nimue can't bring herself to hurt the girl, and instead does what she can to guide her towards becoming an effective and courageous master.

[heinzpilsner]

Okay, I finally braced myself for analysing Maiko interactions in "The Beach", and I didn't even have to drink before it!

I hope my sacrifice will be appreciated by descendants

So, this is the first part.

And I must say, after rewatching the episode instead of just reading the script some of my previous assessments changed quite a bit! Not the one about Zuko's haircut though.

Anyway, today we'll look in detail at the seashell scene, because I absolutely refuse to analyse the moment before that where Mai covers Zuko's eyes from the sight of Lo and Li in swimsuits, apparently.

But before the analysis, yep, I'm definitely procrastinating at this point here's a little bit of bonus storytelling criticism, because I just couldn't help myself.

It's interesting how "The Beach" tries to convice us that Zuko considers this vacation a "waste of time".

I mean, all we really saw him doing so far (apart from terrorizing Iroh or Aang, that is) is kissing with Mai during a picnic. And somehow I doubt he was sent on this picnic against his will. He literally had nothing better to do in the palace until the war meeting.

So how is the beach any different? What, Zuko doesn't like sand or something?

...

"I don't like sand, Mai. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere!"

sorry, I just had to do it pffft

...But no, that's not what really happens on this beach.

My transitions are smooth as hell today

We see that Zuko in this situation tries to please Mai by giving her a seashell. It literally just lies next to him, so it's a small simple gesture, but it translates the message anyway: "I like you and I want you to be happy".

Well, we all know how well it went.

"Why would I want that?" "I thought it was pretty. Don't girls like stuff like this?" "Maybe stupid girls".

What a spectacularly disastrous little interaction!

Well, at least it's clear to Zuko now that Mai isn't interested in seashells.

As well as she isn't interested in making him feel like his affection is appreciated, apparently.

But the thing is, Zuko's question actually managed to hurt Mai's pride.

I must say, asking your girlfriend whether "girls" in general like or don't like something is pretty insensitive. People like to feel unique, to feel that their partner sees in them not just some gender stereotype, but their distinctive personality. Especially if a person in question prouds herself of not being like "those stupid girls".

(Still... What smart girls like instead, Mai? Knives? Fruit tarts with rose petals? Palanquin rides? Sorry, your personality is just so deep and multifaceted!)

Anyway, "Don't you like shells, Mai? Why?" would be a right way to ask this question.

So, Zuko wasn't exactly at his best here.

And I can't even say it's not a part of his general romance trend - he thought it was a smart thing to say "you have quite an appetite for a girl" on his date with Jin!

(But it's quite interesting to compare Jin's and Mai's reactions in similar cases, actually. Mai, who's supposed to be the one with "childhood trauma", has no problems at all with expressing her annoyance and resentment. Jin? She just says "thanks" politely and keeps trying to learn more about "Lee".

Someone could say the difference is all about self-respect. I'd say it's mostly about pride, the level of affection and motivation to make this work.

Jin moves towards Zuko around his awkwardness, Mai doesn't hesitate to push him away after his first slip-up while he moves towards her. Of course, the circumstances of their interactions are different, but it's still a curious contrast to think about.

Well, one thing these girls definitely have in common though is that they both don't know who Zuko really is - each in her own way.)

But let's return to the problem of Zuko talking about "girls" in general.

What we need to consider here is that stereotypes usually emerge when a person doesn't have much personal experience of interacting with a certain group of people. And in Zuko's case, the group in question is teenage girls. Which is... quite understandable?

But... how he managed not to screw things up with Mai much earlier is the biggest question here, actually. Did they talk at all?

...Stop. Wait a minute! Actually, the last time we saw Zuko talking with Mai, his approach was quite personilised: "You're beautiful when you hate the world".

But now his question suddenly implies that he's focused not on Mai in particular, but on following his role of a good boyfriend as he sees it.

I must say, depiction of Zuko's romantic competence between the episodes is quite contradictory. Clueless and insensitive or emphatic and observant - which one is it?

But, okay, let's look at "The Beach" depiction as a separate case. We assume it's Zuko's first relationship, so he has yet to learn a lot about how these things work. And I guess the fact must make him feel pretty insecure - especially considering that classical gender model implies man's active role*. So, I believe this is that his 'shell' question really was about - Zuko was hoping for a little bit of guidance from Mai here.

(*Hmm, this makes Jin's active behavior quite curious from a cultural point of view. And what about the beginning of Maiko relationship? Somehow I doubt that Zuko was an initiator here. But that's a thing to think about for later.)

Anyway, though luck, boy - your girlfriend now is too focused on being proud and "smart" to stop and remember that you spent most of the last 3 years on some battleship among sailors (or running away from your murderous sister who... had one quite interesting accomplice with her, when I think about it).

Now Mai believes it's your job to make your relationship work, and your efforts so far didn't impress her. So, as usual, you're gonna learn your lesson hard way.

And in essence, this is Maiko dynamic in the first half of "The Beach" - Zuko moves towards Mai but makes some mistake in the process, Mai notices only the mistake and ignores the intention behind the gesture whatsoever.

Still, I bet for Zuko this situation feels oddly... nostalgic? Why, this girl is not his wife yet, but she already treats him like she's a member of his family!.. Isn't it adorable?

(No.)

Oh well, at least Mai didn't cut another half of his face off with a knife for his ice cream blunder.

But... Actually, the show tries to tell us it all doesn't really matter. Because, when we see the pair later during the dinner, they are... sitting very close?

And basically, this picture says: "Look, their feelings for each other are really strong and intense! Despite all of their little silly misunderstandings they still gravitate towards each other!"

And actually, this is quite an interesting case - most of positive Maiko information in the episode goes through non-verbal signals in between of their dialogues. It's about their poses, or gestures, or Mai's facial expression. On the basis of the script alone, their relationship seemed much colder to me.

And... Well, what can I say? In itself, mutual physical gravitation is a good thing, as well us intense feelings. The only problem is...

Everything else in this relationship, basically?

And as we soon learn, Zuko and Mai have plenty of issues accumulating here for quite some time. Yet, we never really see the pair to try and discuss them in a healthy way - until the resulting disaster becomes impossible to ignore, that is.

... And the writers decided that anything less than Zuko's jealous rampage during the party wouldn't be disastrous enough, apparently.

Because who on earth needs subtlety and nuances when you can just make the character act like a caricature of generic macho boyfriend catastrophe?

28 red flags, you didn't want to leave him a chance, huh?

But... I guess it's a good time to stop for now?

To be continued in the next depressing episode of the 'analyzing beach Maiko' series!

(On a completely sudden and unrelated note, I actually like Azula's moment at the start of the volleyball scene. I mean, it's just such a vivid depiction of a professional deformation problem!)

Something like this.

And as usual, I ignore all the notifications.

(... But now I think about the fact that I managed to analyse tSR all this time on the basis of the script and my memory alone pffft ... I wonder how badly I screwed it up. But... Ugh, working with text format in general is so much easier to me!)

Ah. Navalny is dead now, apparently. Just learned it. Gosh, I hate those bastards so much. R.I.P., guy.

[tippenfunkaport]

Long ass author's notes under the jump because it's my post and I do what I want...

Whew! And that's a wrap on Going There at 141,587 words!

So this is my longest fanfic to date and the one that took the longest because of all the rewrites so indulge me for a moment. 

While I didn't start posting this until Dec of 2020, I started writing it about two months after the Season 5 finale ended so this has been just under four years in the making for me. The Season 5 finale of She-Ra dropped May 15th, 2020 but I watching it with my kiddo so it took us several weeks to actually get through it all between school and life. But while I had an absolutely amazing experience watching this show with her from Day One and wouldn’t change it for the world, small children are not the ideal viewing companion if you actually want to pay attention to, say, dialog and it made for a distracted viewing experience. It was easily a month plus later when I actually had the time to re-watch the entire show myself and properly pay attention. This rewatch coupled with listening to ND Stevenson's character playlists and generally spending far too much time thinking about these characters than is normal or healthy while coping with a global pandemic catapulted me fully into obsession town. 

Getting Warmer wasn't just my first SPOP fanfic, it was the first fanfic I'd posted ever. As I’ve mentioned before, I wrote it because I was in a writing workshop at the time and needed something to share with the class and didn’t have anything original in progress atm. (I started lockdown super burned out and my plan during the pandemic was to take a break from writing entirely while my job was COVID-ed. This somehow backfired spectacularly and instead I wrote 2 million words of fanfic in under a year but that’s another story.)  Almost immediately after posting Getting Warmer, I started thinking about writing more missing scene fics set during season 5, my list gradually increasing until I realized at this point I might as well accept that I was apparently writing the fabled longfic. 

Going There had two big metamorphosis moments as I was writing it which added to why it took me so long to post. The first was that I had already written a good chunk of it when the fandom found ND's fic, Don't Go, which threw me into something of a narrative tailspin as it ruined the continuity of what I'd been writing. After some hemming and hawing, I decided it was worth it to go back and rewrite everything to accommodate the new timeline that this new bit of canon gave me. 

The second big shift was that this story originally started with the gang taking off from Etheria (hence why it was called Going There), but at this point I had written the scene with Bow finding the notes (which I had planned to just post as a one-shot) and sort of regretted that Shells wasn’t part of it which led to the realization that... you know what? I might as well just do the whole dang season, let's go. 

So, hilariously, this last section when they were on Etheria was finished first, then the space stuff that I had to rewrite was written next, and the very first section when they were on Etheria I wrote last. Which is completely backwards but just the hilarious way writing works sometimes. 

Honestly, everything about how I wrote this was “wrong” (which I  kind of needed to do during my lockdown breakdown to remind me why I write the way I do) in the sense of proper writing process which is another big reason for the stop and start in posting BUT that was a weird kind of blessing in disguise because now whenever I go back to an really disastrous draft that I did a poor job of planning first, I find myself saying, “Oh well! It’s going to suck, but this’ll be just like rewriting Going There!” Which maybe doesn’t sound helpful but one of of the biggest things with writing is everything is easier when you know you’ve pulled off something similar before. 

(Unfortunately, I also wrote Horse Girl Everyone the same way I wrote Going There which was very bad of me and Past Tippen needs a stern talking to because now Present Tippen has a mess to deal with. There is such a fine line between “haha, it’s only fanfic so I don’t have to care wooooo” and “oh damn it now I just made more work for myself by not caring” and I always seem to be on the wrong side of it.) 

Someday, I would like to start a similar "one-shot collection that can be read continuously," post-war canonverse fic of the Best Friend Squad navigating peacetime and their new relationships (it’ll include everyone but mostly focus on Catradora and Glimbow so I'm calling it Squad Goals), but that will have to wait until I get some of my other WIPs finished. Though I will say that Going There has a direct sequel which is already in progress (What can I say? I got impatient!) called Coming Home that is already over 40k long and barely halfway done so there's plenty to catch up on in the meantime. 

Plus all my canonverse fics are in continuity with each other so any of my post-war fics function as sequels to this (just keep in mind that most of my fics are private right now because of AI scraping so you'll need to log into to see most of them).  

I said in the notes that I would eventually like to be completely self-indulgent go back and do a full live re-read of the entire fic as kind of a director’s commentary track so keep an eye out for that in this space at some point in the future. 

What’s next? Well, in the most immediate, in about a week you’ll be getting 7 brand new fics for me for Glimbow Week, one of which is a multi-chapter I wrote as part of the WIP Big Bang. Then as soon as I get a break in my IRL work schedule (this summer has been so crazy), I’ll be back to finishing up my other fics in progress. This is getting long so I’ll wrap this up and then do another update of where I stand with all of those in separate post. 

I want to thank everyone who's been reading this all this time, even though of you that hopped in and out just to read random chapters. It has been so much fun reading all your reactions as we went! 

If you’re not a writer, you cannot possibly imagine how many hours of work went into this absolute labor of love. I went into this fic not really expecting anyone to read it outside of the usual diehard Glimbows and was surprised and delighted when it found readers outside of that usual niche! This was ultimately just a way for me to collect all my own personal headcanons about Season 5 in one place so hearing from so many of you that this became one of your comfort fics or that this felt like the expanded version of Season 5 gives me endless joy!  

Thanks again for reading and joining me on this journey! 

"Hold out your hand," she said, and he did because he always trusted her, even now when everything was unfamiliar and new. She tipped whatever was in her hand into his and pressed his fingers closed around it. "Can you feel it?"  He nodded. Something tingled against his palm, the warmth slightly twitchy, like a living thing. When he glanced down, he saw golden light spilling out from between his fingertips. "What is it?"  Glimmer fit her hand over his, the two of them holding the glow together. "Ask it to do something. Anything."

Gorgeous art by the amazing and talented @dalila-nonsense for the final chapter of Going There which is called...

✨Glow✨

Read on AO3

[dameronscopilot]

can i get poe dameron, dry humping, voice kink and praise kink with “you know you live me” as shes stubborn to admit she likes him pretty please

Insufferable

Poe Dameron x f!reader

Word Count: 2.1k+

Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT

Content: NSFW, smut, dry humping, dirty talk, voice kink, praise kink

Summary: Avoiding Poe Dameron (and his unfailing charm) isn't quite so easy anymore when you end up stranded on an ice planet with him.

MASTERLIST || MORE KINKTOBER

Agreeing to embark on a reconnaissance mission with Poe Dameron was hardly conducive to your continued efforts to ignore him. And yet here you were—stranded for the night on a miserable ice planet, ship firmly grounded thanks to the wet, frigid winds that had sent you down for an emergency landing in the first place…with one insufferable pilot as your only company. 

From the moment you joined the Resistance, Poe had been flummoxed by the way you seamlessly brushed off his advances at every turn. It’s not that you didn’t find him attractive—entirely the opposite, actually. Just his voice was unfortunately enough to inspire many a late night fantasy, let alone his charming smile and warm, brown eyes. It was a fact you’d begrudgingly accepted early on. 

The issue was that you’d known plenty of cocky, pretty flyboys like him when you were a pilot with the New Republic, and you knew their game all too well. No goddamn thanks. You had zero interest in being just another notch in Poe’s cockpit. 

You could tell Poe was used to effortlessly charming women into his orbit, could see it in the way he employed new tactics on a daily basis in a futile attempt to win you over. But what he didn’t know was that the only thing that you were better at than flying an X-wing was being stubborn. If he thought he possibly had the wherewithal to wear you down, he had another thing coming.

This disastrous mission should have been quick and painless, bringing you back to the base in less than a day’s time. Though your heart had lurched when the assignment had popped up on your datapad alongside Poe’s name, you’d told yourself there was nothing to worry about. 

Unfortunately, as things in your life were often wont to do, that self reassurance had blown up spectacularly in your face.

Which is how you now found yourself curled into a ball in one of the bunks, shivering uncontrollably thanks to the way the raging cold of the storm outside had unforgivingly slipped in through each and every nook and cranny in the ship’s exterior. 

Poe had been fairly quiet thus far, which was a shocking turn of events given his general track record of talking your ear off whenever he was near you. Perhaps it hadn’t helped that you’d snapped at him the other day when he’d tried to offer you some help in repairing a blown thruster on your starfighter. Admittedly, your attitude had been entirely uncalled for, and you’d even gone so far as to look for him in the mess hall later that night to apologize (his response had been a mere nod before turning back to his dinner). 

His voice interrupted you from your thoughts. “It’ll be a miracle if we don’t freeze to death tonight.”

You pulled down the blanket that was covering your face to glance over at where he was standing a few feet away. “It’s a miracle we haven’t frozen to death yet, Dameron.” you groused miserably, teeth chattering. 

A rare look of uncertainty skirted across Poe’s features as he leveled you with a look of consideration before he said, “I have an idea, but you’re not gonna like it.”

You raised an eyebrow, and he gestured with his chin toward where you were currently fighting for your life to retain your body heat in the cocoon of several blankets. Heat flared in your gut at the implication. “You’re right,” you groaned. 

“About what?” 

“I don’t like it.”

Poe crossed his arms. “So you’d rather freeze than cuddle with me in a totally platonic, fighting-for-survival, probably-going-to-die-otherwise kind of way?”

Glaring at him, you rolled over onto your back to stare at the ceiling. After a beat, you groaned loudly and dramatically lifted up the edge of the blanket. 

You could hardly hear the sounds of him shirking off his jacket and dropping his blaster holster to the floor over the thunderous, erratic beating of your heart. This was not on the fucking itinerary. 

He cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt your internal meltdown, but can you scoot over?”

Biting back the retort dancing on the tip of your tongue, you looked down to see that you’d barely offered him a sliver of real estate on the thin mattress beside you. With a huff, you slid closer to the wall behind you.

“Thanks,” he acknowledged, before climbing in and slipping under the covers. 

Poe watched as you involuntarily placed a few extra inches of space between you, his lips twitching upward in a smirk. “I don’t bite.”

“Hm,” you replied, unable to formulate anything beyond your noncommittal response when he was this close to you. 

“The whole point of sharing body heat is to touch,” he added mildly. 

“I’m aware,” you snapped, closing the space between the two of you with more force than you’d intended. One of your ankles ended up tucked between his, and your knees knocked together. Admittedly, you could already feel the warmth radiating off of him from underneath your shared blanket. 

Your head was tucked in slightly toward his chest, partially to avoid looking at him, though you swore you could feel his eyes fixated on the top of your head, the weight of his gaze heavy in the stark silence between the two of you. 

When Poe finally spoke, there was an unfamiliar edge to it. “Why do you hate me?”

Despite the knee jerk response that you wanted to give him, that you’d normally give him on any other day, something about his tone made you hesitate. 

“I don’t…hate you,” you responded slowly.

Poe made a dismissive noise. “Then what’s your problem with me?”

You sighed, weighing your options, ultimately opting to go with the truth. Shifting to meet his eyes, you explained, “I knew plenty of guys like you back when I flew with the New Republic. You know, handsome, cocky ace pilots.”

He was quiet for a moment before he finally said, “So you think I’m handsome.”

“Don’t get sidetracked, Dameron,” You snapped. “My point is, I know your type. And the last time I smiled back at a pilot like you, he ended up breaking my heart. So I’m unfortunately no longer in the business of setting myself up for failure.”

Poe bit his lip, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “I’m sorry.”

Something inside of you warmed involuntarily at the softness of his tone. “For what?”

“That someone treated you like that. You deserve better.”

You wondered if he could hear how loudly your heart was clanging around in your chest. “I’m sorry that I let him.”

Poe considered you for a moment, and he looked almost sheepish when he finally spoke again. “I hope you know I’m not just interested in you because you know your way around an X-wing.”

You snorted. “Heard that line before, Dameron.”

He carried on as if you hadn’t spoken. “I’m crazy about you because you’re brilliant. You don’t hesitate to put your entire heart and soul into this fight against the First Order. And you’re one of the bravest soldiers in the Resistance.”

Crazy about you?

Oh. 

He continued, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room or under the covers spread through your limbs, “I mean, I’m not gonna lie. It’s also very hard for me to ignore the fact that the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met can fly circles around my entire squadron. But I digress.”

You were suddenly having a hard time remembering exactly why you’d insisted on putting so much goddamn distance between you and the man currently staring at you like you were the brightest star in the galaxy.

“Poe?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for pushing you away,” you lamented, trying to keep your voice steady as you scooted a hair closer to him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, gently pressing a kiss to the top of your head and resting a hand on top of yours.

As your exhaustion from the stress of the day finally caught up to you, sleep soon took over. And if you were conscious, you’d be quite embarrassed to discover that there was no escaping your secret late night fantasies about Poe Dameron, not even when he was unknowingly fast asleep beside you. But instead, when you found yourself laying underneath of him in a dream, you didn’t hesitate to crane your neck upward, pressing your lips to his.

Poe kissed you back with fervor, one hand cupping the back of your head as he dipped his tongue into your mouth. In your dreams, the rhythm of his tongue sliding against yours as he devoured your mouth was a familiar dance. He bit your lip, and you mewled, drawing a chuckle out of him as he ran his nose along your cheek, his stubble brushing against your chin. 

As the kiss grew deeper and hungrier, Poe’s hand slid down to grip at your waist, his thumb tucking into the hem of your pants. You arched upward into him, eager for more friction, which he playfully denied you of. Whining in frustration, you slipped a hand between your bodies and cupped him between his legs, feeling how hard he already was for you. The smile on his face fell as he moaned, pushing his cock against your palm, and you smirked before flipping him over and straddling him. 

You leaned down, kissing him sweetly on the mouth as you began to grind down on him, both of you groaning in unison at the pleasurable feeling of his thick shaft pressing against your hot core.

“Fuck.”

Your eyes shot open at the sound of Poe’s husky voice in your ear, and you froze as a cold, numbing feeling of mortification washed over you. You realized that you had indeed rolled over on top of him in your sleep, and based on the dampness between your legs and the throbbing of his length between you, you hadn’t just been laying there. 

“I—” you choked out, mind unable to come up with any sort of a reasonable explanation as to why you were currently dry humping him.

“Don’t stop,” Poe breathed out, his voice rougher than usual.

You weren’t sure you had heard him correctly. “What?”

“Unless you want to stop,” he clarified.

You’d deal with the rational part of your mind later. Right now, you were far too distracted by the feeling of him pressed against you. You pushed your hips flush to his, and he moaned. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, and you did it again, your juices soaking through your pants entirely as you ran your cunt along the length of Poe’s cock.

“Were you dreaming about me?” he asked.

Fuck it. 

“Yeah, I was.”

Poe groaned again, his hands curling around your hips as you dropped your head down against his collarbone. “You look so fucking beautiful rubbing yourself all over my cock. Think I’m gonna come just like this.”

His breath was hot against your ear, and the cadence of his voice sent a fresh gush of arousal leaking out of your folds. Your breath hitched. 

“Keep going,” he whispered.

You pressed down against him again, the ache between your thighs growing more demanding, and one of your hands ended up threaded in Poe’s curls.

“Good girl.”

As the praise fell from his lips, your empty cunt clenched down on nothing, and your legs trembled. Poe noticed, and he cupped the side of your face, looking into your eyes.

Licking his lips, he added, “You’re so wet for me, I can feel it soaking through your pants. Bet you’d take me so fucking well, stuffed in that pretty little pussy.”

Your heart raced, your cunt throbbing as you began to desperately press down against him, chasing your rapidly approaching climax. He met your thrusts in time, and you keened at the feeling of his callused fingers skimming the place where your shirt had ridden up, exposing your stomach. 

Poe’s mouth hovered a breath away from yours, and he spoke his next words against your lips. “Come for me.”

The livewire of tension coiled in your gut snapped, your orgasm flooding through you in a wave of white hot pleasure. Poe’s hips began to stutter as he rode out his climax moments later, spilling ropes of cum inside of his pants. You collapsed on top of him, both of you panting heavily.

“Does this mean you’ll stop avoiding me like the plague now?” he eventually asked, once you’d both caught your breath.  

You grinned against his chest. “I can’t make any promises.”

He scoffed and nipped at your ear. “You know you love me.”

“You’re insufferable, Poe Dameron,” you sighed, lifting your head up slightly and wrapping one of his curls around your finger before pressing a kiss to his lips. 

Read the time skip sequel - INSATIABLE

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» POE DAMERON MASTERLIST » OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Firstly, thank you guys for this blog and all the recs, it's an amazing job honestly💖💖

Secondly, do you know any good ineffable husbands multi-chapter human au's with no pov switching? No matter whether it's Aziraphale's or Crowley's pov, it's just many fics show us both of their perspectives, and that's great too, but I want to read something where we can see only one character's feelings and thoughts and can only assume the other's through his reactions... No other specific preferences, but please no bad endings.

And thanks again for your work!!

Hi and thank you! There are some single POV human AUs. Try these...

Under Construction by summerofspock [E]

Crowley has one goal: sell the run-down lodge in the Cascades that his uncle left him in his will.

He doesn't expect to meet someone like Aziraphale, the kind handyman working on his uncle's property who turns out to be more of an enigma than Crowley first thought.

Long Haul by snae_b [E]

First time he sees him he’s barreling down 40 like a bat out of hell. Thirty miles outside of Flagstaff and six hours behind schedule. The desert looming large on all sides. Red sand and sage stretching out for miles and miles in front of him. Juniper and pine and gray crag behind him. The flora might be changing but that's about it. Same bone-dry air that gives him nosebleeds. Same cute little cottontails and scrawny jackrabbits darting under his tires. Same two lanes separated by white lines...

He checks his speedometer. He hasn't downshifted since the city limits. Sheer luck, that. He's coming up fast on another rig. Flatbed with Vermont plates. Bright white cab with gold wings painted on the side.

Anthony Crowley might have gotten out of Missouri, but he hasn't escaped his past. He wears it like a cloak. When he crosses paths with a guardian angel, he starts to learn how to shed it.

Clementine by Mussimm (E)

I love you madly Let my imagination run away with you gladly.

The seaside neighbours AU exactly one person asked for.

New Approaches by FeralTuxedo (M)

Aziraphale Fell, Professor of Creative Writing at Tadfield University, welcomes the attendees of the First Conference on New Approaches to Genre Fiction. Among them is keynote speaker and best-selling thriller author Anthony J. Crowley. Aziraphale has not seen him for twenty-five years. Sometimes, he can still feel the ghost of their parting kiss on his lips.

Or: Exes reunite at academic conference. A Human University Professor/Author AU.

And so beguile thy sorrow by hapax (T)

Crowley (generally known to the staff as That Demon) was unusual in that he was obviously aware of his library codename, and delighted in returning the favour. Thank goodness, he showed no apparent signs of mental illness, or awkward exhibitionism, or even potential danger. What he was was bloody annoying.

Aziraphale adores his work as a public librarian. He finds fulfillment in answering questions, recommending titles, and planning programs. He likes his co-workers (well, most of them), and loves the small city he serves. The only thing marring his happy life is That Patron. Until one spectacularly disastrous Summer Reading Program throws them into a most unusual Arrangement.

roots, the other, wings by MostDismalFeldsparkle (NR)

Embattled by his grief stricken orphaned nephew, and still standing in the ashes of an awful relationship, Aziraphale, in need of a gardener, emails Crowley’s of Eden.

~ Mods N & D

[redbootsindoriath]

begging you to elaborate on autistic beleg and autistic túrin!!

Bro thanks so much for asking because I’ve been sitting on these thoughts for years.  And now I have to dig up the list.  I’m just glad I wrote it down, and thankfully @frodo-with-glasses is also visiting and could help me remember what I forgot to include.  Brace yourself because this post is going to get long.  Seriously.  I even left out any headcanons and just stuck with what evidence I have from the source material.

We’re going to start out with the obvious: Túrin.  And I say obvious because I have seen one other post talking about how he comes across as autistic, and his traits are more obvious (especially in the more well-known Silmarillion as opposed to other versions of the story).

Clearly he’s quite bright, especially as a strategist (it’s mainly the CurseTM that turns his plans into a bad thing whenever it’s least convenient), but a significant number of fans describe him, sometimes affectionately and sometimes not, as stupid.  This is probably because he’s completely blind to many social cues.  One of our first examples is him never noticing how interested Nellas was in him (whether romantically or platonically I’ve never been able to figure out).

Coming suddenly out of thought [Túrin] looked at Beleg, and said: 'The elf-maiden that you named, though I forget how: I owe her well for her timely witness; yet I cannot recall her. Why did she watch my ways?' Then Beleg looked strangely at him. 'Why indeed?' he said. 'Túrin, have you lived always with your heart and half your mind far away? As a boy you used to walk with Nellas in the woods.' The Children of Húrin, chapter VI

Another example is how he completely missed the fact that Finduilas loved him and he continued shipping Gwinduilas.  (Also note the uncomfortable miscommunication between an autistic character and allistic character in this section.  Both of them assume the other is just being difficult for some reason.)

Afterwards Túrin sought out Gwindor, and said to him: 'Gwindor, dear friend, you are falling back into sadness; do not so! For your healing will come in the houses of your kin, and in the light of Finduilas.' Then Gwindor stared at Túrin, but he said nothing, and his face was clouded. 'Why do you look upon me so?' said Túrin. 'Often your eyes have gazed at me strangely of late. How have I grieved you? I have opposed your counsels; but a man must speak as he sees, nor hide the truth that he believes, for any private cause. I would that we were one in mind; for to you I owe a great debt, and I shall not forget it.' 'Will you not?' said Gwindor. 'Nonetheless your deeds and your counsels have changed my home and my kin. Your shadow lies upon them. Why should I be glad, who have lost all to you?' Túrin did not understand these words, and did but guess that Gwindor begrudged him his place in the heart and counsels of the King. The Children of Húrin, chapter X

There’s more of this in larger amounts in how he dealt with Mîm and Saeros.  He was friends with Mîm until Beleg came back and then he practically ignored Mîm, albeit unintentionally, and somehow didn’t see how betrayed the dwarf felt as a result of that.  Túrin ignored Saeros’s bullying until he couldn’t take it anymore and then he lashed out in a spectacularly disastrous and emotional manner that somehow nobody (except Mablung) saw coming.  I should point out that time that he missed the fact that he’d accidentally taken Saeros’s seat at that one banquet, and immediately afterward completely missed the fact that Saeros was trying to make a snide remark about it:

'Seldom does the march-warden favour us with his company,' [Saeros] said; 'and I gladly yield my accustomed seat for the chance of speech with him.' But Túrin, who was in converse with Mablung the Hunter, did not rise, and said only a curt 'I thank you'. The Children of Húrin, chapter V

On a somewhat similar note to his social awkwardness, he forms very few deep friendships.  When they are deep they're very deep, but most of the rest of the people in his life seem to be just casual acquaintances.  He likes them, but he doesn’t have a deep bond of trust and love with them.  He has his categories of “people I like”,  “people I don’t like”, and “heckin frickin friends that I love with all my heart and soul and I will tell my secrets to”.

His moral system is very black and white.  He may draw the line in weird places, but he has a definite line that cannot be crossed.  We actually get an example of him moving this very clear line:

'At least my hands shall not again be raised against Elves or Men,' said Túrin. 'Angband has servants enough. If others will not take this vow with me, I will walk alone.' Children of Húrin, chapter VI

Notice there’s no “I’ll kill bad humans and bad elves” here.  It’s “nope, no more humans or elves”.  Black and white.

He’s not much good with understanding figurative or flowery language.  Again, quite early on in Children of Húrin there are multiple examples of him going to his friend Labadal and asking him to explain something that Húrin or Morwen had said.  He’s a very intelligent child, but figures of speech are not his strong suit.  Of course, as he grows up he tries to overcorrect this by employing some probably-artificially-learned circumlocution, with varying degrees of success.

He has extremely obvious hyperfixations, and he excels in those skills he does have.  If he doesn’t like doing something, he doesn’t bother with it.  But if he does like doing it, he completely dominates at it.

One only was mightier in arms among the march-wardens of Thingol at that time than Túrin... Children of Húrin, chapter V Led by signs that [Beleg] could read, or by the rumour of the passing of Men among the wild things with whom he could speak, he came often near, but always their lair was deserted when he came to it; for they kept a watch about them by day and night, and at any rumour of approach they were swiftly up and away. 'Alas!' he cried. 'Too well did I teach this child of Men craft in wood and field! An Elvish band almost one might think this to be.' Children of Húrin, chapter VI

A human--and a young one at that--doing better than elves at the things elves are supposed to be best at?  It smacks of the savant stereotype, except with tragedy to balance it.

Some other things--his lax habits about hygiene, his stubbornness, his obsession over single tasks or ideas--don’t really need explaining, I think.  They’re in the Silmarillion so most people are familiar with them.  There are, however, three more specific things that I’m rather undecided on but I’m going to mention them anyway.  First, he’s clumsy when it comes to very fine motor control.  You could attribute some of this to the curse, but it could also just be him being, well, clumsy.

...in crafts of making he had less skill, for he was slow to learn his own strength, and often marred what he made with some sudden stroke. Children of Húrin, chapter V

He has some minor selective mutism.  There are a few times it’s mentioned, but it’s right off the bat in Children of Húrin, literally in the first chapter.

...he was not merry, and spoke little, though he learned to speak early and ever seemed older than his years. Children of Húrin, chapter I

You’ll excuse my pointing out that this hints at Asperger’s specifically: no speech delay.  I know it’s not a commonly accepted subcategory anymore, but it’s a very specific detail and I like those.  Also I feel obligated to include this bit as well:

But courage and strength were renewed in the Elf of Nargothrond, and departing from Taur-nu-Fuin he led Túrin far away. Never once as they wandered together on long and grievous paths did Túrin speak... Children of Húrin, chapter IX

That’s months of silence.  I know it’s because of trauma, but still.  I had to include it.

And finally, he’s extremely sensitive.  I almost didn’t include this one in my list because it isn’t in itself a guaranteed sign of autism, but it’s pretty common as a comorbid symptom.  There are many examples of his emotional sensitivity and quick temper throughout all the versions of the story, so I’m just picking one:

...but [the outlaws] feared him, because of his sudden angers, which they seldom understood. Children of Húrin, chapter VI

Note again the difficulty in communication.  All in all, I think Tolkien wrote Túrin this way on purpose.  He may not have had a word to describe it, but he made a character with too many autistic traits for me to ignore.

Now!  On to Beleg.

The traits that make me suspect Beleg as autistic are much more subtle, but if you’re looking for them you start seeing them everywhere.  Also many of them are in the Lay of the Children of Húrin, which probably explains why not many people noticed them because that thing can be difficult to unravel compared to the other versions of the story.

Right off the bat, we know that Beleg does whatever the heck he wants and nobody can stop him.  I’ve seen a quote floating around on almost every Wiki article about Beleg that says that he followed no man and could not be restrained.  (If anyone can tell me the source for that, I will draw Beleg for you, because it certainly matches what we know about him but I like the precision of knowing the source material in case anyone challenges it.)  While this isn’t exclusively an autistic trait, it is common enough that I thought it deserved to be included.  Beleg also lives in the woods and only comes around Menegroth when he’s good and ready.  Again, not exclusively autistic, but this casually asocial attitude was one of the first things that roused my suspicions about him.  Heck, according to the Lay he’s especially unsocial.

It was Beleg the hunter, who farthest fared     of his folk abroad ahunting by hill     and hollow valley, who cared not for concourse     and commerce of men. The Lay of the Children of Húrin, I: Túrin’s Fostering

In the Lay, “Men” is capitalized if it’s meant to be translated as “humans”.  Note that it’s not capitalized in that passage.  I’m also going to address this next line before moving on because I know someone is going to point it out if I don’t:

Then Beleg departed from Menegroth and went back to the north-marches, where he had his lodges, and many friends... Children of Húrin, chapter VI

He may have “many friends” among the march-wardens, but he doesn’t spend all of his time with them.  In fact, most of the times we meet him he’s alone.  You can have a decently sized friend group without being around them all the time, especially if you’re immortal.

Now, on to his skill set: elves are supposed to be either healers or hunters/warriors.  Beleg really went “watch me do it anyway” because:

And the Eldar deemed that the dealing of death, even when lawful or under necessity, diminished the power of healing.... On the other hand many elven-men were great healers and skilled in the lore of living bodies, though such men abstained from hunting, and went not to war until the last need. Of the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar

Only one was there     in war greater, higher in honour     in the hearts of Elves, than Túrin son of Húrin     untamed in war -- even the huntsman Beleg     of the Hidden People, the son of the wilderness     who wist no sire (to bend whose bow     of the black yew-tree had none of the might),     unmatched in knowledge of the wood's secrets     and the weary hills. The Lay of the Children of Húrin, I: Túrin’s Fostering

Now was it that it came into the heart of Beleg the hunter of the Elves to seek after Túrin so soon as his own hurts were healed. This being done in no great number of days, for he had a skill of healing... Book of Lost Tales part II, Turambar and the Foaloke

Now Beleg was sorely wounded, but he was mighty among the Elves of Middle-earth, and he was moreover a master of healing. Therefore he did not die, and slowly his strength returned. The Silmarillion, Of Túrin Turambar

Talk all you want about older notes being cancelled out by newer notes, I’m still taking this as another subtle hint at Beleg being autistic.

Hyperfixation.  Extreme hyperfixation.  When he’s bent on something, there’s nothing anyone can do to distract him.  This is a focus that’s been honed by all the practice an older-than-the-sun-and-the-moon lifespan can afford.

Many messengers had been sent out by Thingol to seek Túrin within Doriath and in the lands near its borders; but in the year of his flight they searched for him in vain, for none knew or could guess that he was with the outlaws and enemies of Men. When winter came on they returned to the King, save Beleg only. After all others had departed still he went on alone. Children of Húrin, chapter VI

Beleg also thinks in black and white, even more so than Túrin at times.

'Fare free,' said Túrin. 'That wish Mablung gave me at our parting. The grace of Thingol will not stretch to receive these companions of my fall, I think; but I will not part with them now, if they do not wish to part with me. I love them in my way, even the worst a little. They are of my own kind, and there is some good in each that might grow. I think that they will stand by me.' 'You see with other eyes than mine,' said Beleg. 'If you try to wean them from evil, they will fail you. I doubt them, and one most of all.' 'How shall an Elf judge of Men?' said Túrin. 'As he judges of all deeds, by whomsoever done,' answered Beleg... Children of Húrin, chapter VI

His conversational skills are a bit lacking, although less obviously so than Túrin’s.  He swings back and forth between being overly blunt and being overly cryptic.  As with Túrin, he might be trying to adjust for a natural lack of subtlety and accidentally overshooting it.  He also seems to have a habit of dominating--or at least trying to dominate--any conversation he’s in.  The most obvious example I can think of was when he showed up late to Túrin’s trial and literally pressures Elu Thingol himself into accepting Nellas as a witness.

Then there was silence in the hall, and Thingol lifted up his hand to pronounce his doom. But at that moment Beleg entered in haste, and cried: 'Lord, may I yet speak?' 'You come late,' said Thingol. 'Were you not bidden with the others?' 'Truly, lord,' answered Beleg, 'but I was delayed; I sought for one whom I knew. Now I bring at last a witness who should be heard, ere your doom falls.' 'All were summoned who had aught to tell,' said the King. 'What can he tell now of more weight than those to whom I have listened?' 'You shall judge when you have heard,' said Beleg. 'Grant this to me, if I have ever deserved your grace.' 'To you I grant it,' said Thingol. Children of Húrin, chapter V

Bear with me because we’re getting close to the end of the list, but I saved the clues that I found most interesting for last.  Beleg is at any given moment either the most calm and collected character you can imagine, or wildly excitable, and there is no in-between.  Anyone who’s read the Silmarillion knows how stable Beleg can be sometimes, but here:

Then up sprang Beleg: 'That our vaunt and our vows     be not vain for ever, evern such as they swore,     those seven chieftains, an oath let us swear     that is unchanging as Tain-Gwethil's     towering mountain!' Their blades were bared,    as blood shining in the flame of the fires     while they flashed and touched. As with one man's voice     the words were spoken, and the oath uttered     that must unrecalled abide for ever,     a bond of truth and friendship in arms,     and faith in peril. The Lay of the Children of Húrin, II: Beleg

He really suggested the Gaurwaith swear an oath of loyalty like the Fëanorians.  That’s a special breed of chaos.  Not to mention the whole manic monologue he went off with to Flinding (Gwindor) later on in that chapter of the Lay.  All it takes is a single suggestion to send him from 0 to 100000, as long as it’s something he’s interested in.

Now this leads me to my favorite piece of evidence for an autistic Beleg: a surprising inability, especially for an elf, to gauge the volume of his own voice in a moment of excitement.

In eager anger     then up sprang Beleg, crying and calling,     careless of Flinding: 'O Túrin, Túrin,    my troth-brother, to the brazen bonds     shall I abandon thee, and the darkling doors     of the Deeps of Hell?' 'Thou wilt join his journey     to the jaws of sorrow, O bowman crazéd,     if thy bellowing cry to the Orcs should come...' The Lay of the Children of Húrin, II: Beleg

(This is only a small side note, and really doesn’t hold up on its own, but Beleg has dogs.  Animals are a common enough autistic special interest that I thought I might as well mention it, especially when we remember that he can communicate with some animals.)

Now enough of the individual traits. When we look at the two characters together, we can of course contrast the old-autistic and young-autistic differences.  Beleg literally does whatever he wants and people have just learned not to bother trying to change his mind.  He doesn’t bother trying to fit into everyone else’s world but rather runs along perfectly content in his own parallel reality.  Túrin, on the other hand, is stressed, frustrated, and confused both by himself and by everyone else, and he spends most of his life trying to figure out where and how he’s meant to fit in.  But I’d also like to mention that of Túrin’s friends in the whole story, Beleg is the one who has the least miscommunication (although when there is miscommunication it’s spectacularly bad, insert obligatory dark humor here, yada yada).  They may talk in rather dated syntax, but they are able to communicate what is needed when it’s needed.  They’re both blunt and they trust each other enough to take a verbal blow without grudging it afterwards.

'I would lead my own men, and make war in my own way,' Túrin answered. 'But in this at least my heart is changed: I repent every stroke save those dealt against the Enemy of Men and Elves. And above all else I would have you beside me. Stay with me!' 'If I stayed beside you, love would lead me, not wisdom,' said Beleg. 'My heart warns me that we should return to Doriath. Elsewhere a shadow lies before us.' 'Nonetheless, I will not go there,' said Túrin. 'Alas!' said Beleg. 'But as a fond father who grants his son's desire against his own foresight, I yield to your will. At your asking, I will stay.' 'That is well indeed!' said Túrin. Children of Húrin, chapter VI

For being in a book packed with flowery dialogue, their conversations tend to be rather to-the-point.  There’s no small talk, everything that they discuss is pertinent to the current situation.  And Túrin, who is not particularly well-known for listening to anyone’s advice at any time for any reason, seems to respect and appreciate Beleg’s bluntness even to the point of saying this immediately after Beleg called him out on a particularly stupid comment:

Túrin's eyes glinted, but as he looked in Beleg's face the fire in them died, and they went grey, and he said in a voice hardly to be heard: 'I wonder, friend, that you deign to come back to such a churl. From you I will take whatever you give, even rebuke. Henceforward you shall counsel me in all ways, save the road to Doriath only.' Children of Húrin, chapter VII

They’re both stubborn and they’ve found a way to work around it because they know that there are no subtle background messages to what the other is saying.

And, of course, to close, I’d like to point out that autistics tend to find each other because they feel understood in a world that is as foreign as a different world.  Perhaps Túrin, coming to a kingdom of people who aren’t even of the same race as his own, found solace in someone who understood the way his mind worked without having to explain anything, and that someone was Beleg.  Never before had he known anyone who so instinctively understood the way his mind worked; and Beleg, thousands of years old, alone even in a realm filled with his own people, found in a human child a sense of purpose and validation that he’d not even known he was missing his whole life, and chose a mortal as his closest friend.

TLDR, there is no TLDR.  I’ve way overthought this and as a result I’m not sure how to summarize it.

If I think of anything I missed in my essay here, I’ll add it later in the comments or a reblog or something.

[misfits-of-zaun]

“Oh sure!”

With her all-too-characteristic bold disregard for personal space, Jinx promptly claimed the edge of the desk, all but blocking the security feeds. Ekko made an exasperated noise and leaned sidways in his seat, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair in a show of keeping the screens in view. As if she hadn't stolen his full attention from the moment she'd entered the room.

“What a guy! Making every second count.”

Oh, someone was peeved about getting cockblocked right when it had started to get good, huh?

The Firelight leader snorted in amusement, even as he felt a faint flush of embarrassment diffuse across his face. Between their disastrous first kiss and their interrupted first time, it was starting to feel like they were cursed or something. He hadn't wanted it to go down like that - the impulsivity of it, while admittedly hot in the moment, had been spectacularly poor timed. He felt like he needed to make up for it.

"It's not how much time you have, it's what you do with it."

Ekko fired off the quip with faux solemn seriousness.

"But having more time tonight before dealing with a Code Red emergency definitely would've been nice," he tacked on the concession.

It was reassuring that things still seemed to be relatively cool between them, that he wasn't sensing the awful undercurrent of tension he had grown so accustomed to watching out for with Jinx. It didn't seem like she regretted what had happened, so much as the fact that it had been cut short.

Did that mean she wanted to revisit the new territory they'd broached tonight?

Was she interested in becoming more than friends, or just interested in the benefits of a friend who desired her?

Ekko still wasn't very certain what her feelings towards him were - perhaps Jinx herself was still figuring it out. They were gonna need to talk about it. They needed to talk about a lot of things - shit, why was she smirking at him like that?

“We should fight more often.”

Oh, for gods' sake.

Ekko scoffed and lightly kicked back against Jinx's prodding boot in playful retaliation.

"I think we should skip the fighting and jump straight to the making up part," he retorted pointedly, with a returning smirk that conveyed more confidence than he actually felt.

"Y'know, time being such a precious commodity around here, and all. Gotta get your priorities in order."

@just--a--jinx

"Why does it always have to be a fight with you?" (Ekko)

Everything had built to this. That awful, fiery tension hadn’t gone away. The mere mention of it had everything on the brink of an explosion. Toe to toe. Eye to eye. Bristling, Jinx felt herself surrender to the ugly, cornered feeling. Furious, humiliated and hurt, Jinx’s fingers flexed.

“Why does it always have to be a fight with you?” Ekko’s retort was void of venom. He seemed…resigned. Disappointed. 

The words felt like being doused with a bucket of ice water. 

It was impossible to hide the flash of disarmed frustration at the accusation. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t go lookin’ for ‘em.” Jinx suggested, unable to not feel hard done by at the implication that her actions were the problem. Ekko’s approach wasn’t exactly a shining example of how to deal with your issues. The image of him fumbling for his watch had seared itself into her mind, causing a fresh wave of hurt each time it reappeared. 

“And the whole throwing your weight around thing? Definitely not helping.” It was a pointed reminder as to why they were having this squabble in the first place. Jinx’s words shifted to something conversational as she lifted a hand to brush a deliberate path along Ekko’s cheek. So, Ekko wanted to prod uncomfortable topics without a fight? Sure. There were plenty of other ways to let someone know you were upset with them! Abruptly, Jinx’s grip tightened around Ekko’s jaw and she lurched forward, removing the ground from beneath his feet. 

It was hard not to take a moment to enjoy how easily Ekko dropped. The surprise written on his face was a welcome sight. Jinx didn’t let up, and she flashed her very best ‘whoops! I accidentally did that on purpose’ look down to the floor. With a huff, she crouched at Ekko’s side, watching the rise and fall of his chest with a hardness that could only translate as a warning. 

“So. Which one of us is the problem?” The question was posed with more innocence than it was intended. With a blithe, fluid confidence, Jinx shifted to sit atop of her captive audience, canting her head to one side.

“Y’know. Now that the moral high ground has been taken care of.”

[mando-forgive-me]

Pike Place

Flufftober: Work Husband Vibes And Dorky Nicknames with Marcus Pike

Requested by @prettylilhalforc

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader

Wordcount: 1.8k

Tags: Pure self indulgent fluff, friends to lovers vibes, over-indulgence in caffeine and general sweetness

“Who’s the new guy?”

Your assistant looks up from the stack of files he’s delivering to your desk to see who you mean then sighs wistfully. “You mean Special Agent New Guy?” You arch an eyebrow and he laughs. “Sorry, that’s what people are calling him. Special Agent Marcus Pike, he just transferred in from Austin. Art crimes I think? And there’s some rumors flying around about him and a woman at his old office, she broke off an engagement or something.”

You feel a pang of sympathy as you watch the man in question make his way across the crowded floor. He’s handsome, moderately tall and broadly built, the scruff lining his strong jaw as alluring as the curve to his nose and his slightly too-long hair that you find yourself yearning to run your fingers through. He looks friendly enough but no one stops him to say good morning or ask how his day is going. He catches your gaze and gives you a warm smile and a polite nod before the elevator doors close and he disappears from sight. 

You can’t help but feel for him, all alone in a new office with no one to stop the rumor mill churning. 

You wonder if he could use a friend.

You shake the feeling off as quickly as it comes. You’re just getting over your own spectacularly disastrous office romance and the last thing he needs is for people to start gossiping about the two of you. “Let’s give him a break then, yeah? No one needs people speculating about their personal lives at work.”

Your assistant blushes and nods. “You got it, boss.” He scurries back to his own desk, leaving you alone with a massive stack of case files to work through. You eye them sidelong, sigh, and get to work.

_____

Several days go past before you actually meet your new co-worker. 

“Let me guess… chai latte?”

You look over the rim of your Starbucks cup to see Marcus Pike smiling pleasantly at you, his own to-go cup looking absurdly small in his large hand. Judging by the briefcase held loosely in his other hand and the coat draped over his arm, he’s on his way to his own desk. “Hm? Oh no it’s-“

He stops you with an upraised palm. “Wait don’t tell me, I’m usually really good at this. I’ve already gone through my whole department.” He cocks his head, considering you before trying again. “Caramel macchiato?” 

You smile and shake your head, your fingers twisting the cup ever so slightly to keep your order label hidden from him. “Tell you what. You guess my order, I’ll pick up one of your Saturday shifts.” It’s the least you can do-  a small overture of friendship unlikely to get even the nosiest gossip speculating. Just friendliness between colleagues, and certainly nothing to do with the way your heart flutters at the sight of one dimple creasing his cheek when he grins.

“Deal.” He offers you his outstretched hand and says “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

You shake his hand, appreciating his strong, relaxed grip and introduce yourself. He leaves you to your work with a promise to bring you your favorite drink the next day. 

_____

Marcus is as good as his word. He arrives at your desk shortly after you do the following morning and hands you a steaming paper cup. 

This attempt, a chestnut praline latte, is a sugary blend of perfectly steamed milk, smooth espresso, and warm spices, all generously topped with whipped cream. Even the sweet, spiced aroma wafting up through the plastic lid is enough to make you close your eyes in anticipatory bliss, and you have to stifle a moan when the first sip passes your lips.

"Ohh, that's good."

Marcus’ shrewd gaze is fixed on yours, slipping only slightly when you lick foam delicately from your upper lip. He swallows at the same time you do. "But it’s not your favorite, is it?”

"Nope, sorry.” You reach for your wallet and try to pay him for the drink but he won’t take the money, telling you the drinks are on him until he gets it right. You bargain him down to accepting a coffee from you in exchange (“an americano with two sugars, please.”)

Over the next several days, Marcus brings you a series of different drinks, watching closely for signs he's on the right track. If a drink seems too sweet, he brings you something more bracing the next day. Too complicated? He goes simpler. You try to tell him he really doesn't need to but he's determined and secretly, you like the time it gives you with him. 

It’s not long before the two of you are meeting up slightly earlier, giving you more time to enjoy the beverages and each other’s company. You commiserate over tough cases, compare notes after interminable meetings, and generally begin to lean on each other for workplace support. You’re in different departments, but your roles are fairly similar and it’s good to have a work friend who can relate to your situation.

You’d initially expected Marcus to tire of the game (really, you wouldn’t have blamed him) but now that he’s on the mission he’s determined to see it through to the end. Or at least, that’s what you assume, since he turns up at your desk every day without fail, always bearing a new beverage. 

He tries endless combinations- an americano with cream, lattes with oat milk and skim, passion tea with lemonade and without, even a chai latte with pumpkin syrup, but he knows as soon as you taste them that he’s missed the mark. One day he even turns up holding a violently colored dragonfruit refresher.

"Ok I know this one isn't right but the young lady in front of me got one and I couldn't resist. Look how pink it is!"

Marcus hands the dragon drink over and you accept it with a laugh. "'Young lady?’ Really, Pike?"

He laughs and rubs his neck looking slightly embarrassed. “Ok, I swear I’m not actually as old as that made me sound.”

Still smiling, you hold the drink up to the light, awed and slightly intimidated by its vibrant hue. “Is pink even the right word for this?”

“Honestly? I work with art all day and even I have no idea,” Marcus shrugs. 

As time goes by, your morning talks shift from work to more personal interests, like what you’re each reading or watching lately. He recommends some of his favorite classic detective movies, you share your love of British mystery novels, and both of you discover a shared, secret passion for Veronica Mars. The next day he brings you a hot chocolate loaded with marshmallows labelled “Veronica,” and from that day forward there are always different names on the cups: “Harriet Vane” is hot tea laced with lemon, “Miss Marple” a vanilla latte with a surprising dash of cinnamon and nutmeg, and so on.

Joining in on the game, you ask the baristas to add names to Marcus’ cups. He’s always game to play along, doing a Bogart impression the day you bring him a cup marked “Sam Spade,” and an atrocious Belgian accent after “Hercule Poirot.” Both have you laughing until tears come to your eyes and several people turn their heads to see who is cackling about “ze little grey cells.” You wonder if you’ve gone too far bringing him a cup marked “Watson” (plenty of FBI guys have egos far too massive for them to enjoy being even jokingly perceived as someone’s sidekick), but Marcus just smiles and brings you a triple espresso labelled “Holmes” the next day that leaves you buzzing until you crash, hard. 

He finds you sprawled over your desk later that afternoon, your eyes glazed and mumbling about caffeine overdoses. He brings you a slice of cake left over from someone’s birthday to revive you and it’s all you can do not to propose marriage on the spot. Something in your expression must give you away because Marcus looks suddenly uneasy, his usual friendly enthusiasm replaced by a more pensive, guarded look. You wince but before you can say anything else, your phone rings and you have to take the call. He slips away while you’re still on the phone and you’re left hoping you haven’t just scared him off for good.

_____

When the next day of work begins with no sign of Marcus, you’re positive you’ve ruined things, and without even opening your mouth this time. You’re kicking yourself for it mentally as you settle in to start your day.

The next morning he's running late and didn't have time to stop at his normal place. He brings you a mug from the staff room and a promise to bring you a real drink tomorrow. You'd just gotten in too, your hands still chilled and you wrap them gratefully around the ceramic mug. 

“You don’t need to,” you reply, taking a sip of coffee without adding anything else. “You found my favorite.”

Marcus stands there gaping. “All this time and it was just black coffee?”

“‘Black as midnight on a moonless night,’” you quote with an amused, apologetic shrug.

“Dale Cooper, of course,” Marcus groans. 

It’s bittersweet, this moment of discovery,  and you can’t help but feel let down. The game is over, the mission completed. Without this morning ritual, will you still get as many chances to talk to Marcus?

Before you can broach this, his eyes meet yours, warm and brown and, you realize, as essential to your day as your morning caffeine fix. Your heart lifts when he asks “would you like to grab a drink with me after work?”

Not wanting to assume, you ask “need a new game, Pike?”

He chuckles. “No. Believe it or not, I’m not usually much for games.” His gaze is clear and direct as he faces you, though he does take a deep breath before starting. “Ok, here goes. I’ve really liked getting to know you and I’d love to take you out on a date. If not, no hard feelings and I hope we can still be friends.”

You’re beaming like the sun by the time he’s finished and, after a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching, you lean in to kiss his cheek. “I’d love that.”

Marcus’ shoulders slump in relief and he grins back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Except, how about dinner, rather than drinks? I already know I want to spend more time with you, Marcus.” 

He takes your hand, unable or simply unwilling to hide his delight. “Sounds perfect.”

Flufftober Taglist

@nolanell @prettylilhalforc 

Taglist for Friends Who Came in Clutch with Their Starbucks Orders - Thanks guys!

@keeper0fthestars @radiowallet @andthewishingwell​

[mochegato]

Even the Losers

Chapter 16

Chapter 1     Chapter 15

Marinette blinked as the room around her slowly came into focus.  She tried to bring her hand up to rub her head to help alleviate her pulsing headache but her hands weren’t responding.  It felt like there was a weight on them.  Or like they were being held down, bound.  Marinette’s eyes flew open and her heart started pounding as she searched the room for the akuma.  She looked at her hands and silently cursed to herself.  Not only were her arms bound to the arms of a wooden chair, she saw her own naked hands instead of her distinct red suit.  

She groaned and looked around for any clues to where she was being held and what the akuma might be.  If she could figure out their powers, she might be able to figure out how to get out of this.  She stopped when she saw a man in a green suit making his way toward her.  She blinked a few more times taking in his suit and hat.  “Is that… are those question marks?  Are you a question akuma?” she muttered out in French.

The man tilted his head at her.  “You’ll find English is necessary if you want to get out of this one alive, young Wayne.”

Marinette stared at the man a few more seconds, letting his words settle in her head as things started to click in her mind.  She wasn’t in Paris.  This wasn’t an akuma, because there weren’t akumas anymore. She and Adrien had defeated his father. She was in Gotham.  She had been on her way home after a disastrous dinner at the Wayne’s. This was a Gotham villain, not a Parisian one.  This was the Riddler.

Marinette breathed out a sigh of relief before her face scrunched in frustration.  “Are you kidding me?  Are you kidding me right now?  You had to do this right now?”

“Oh, I never kid about riddles.  Now, is not the time to panic, Little Lady,” he taunted.

“Oh, you have no fucking clue.  Now is most definitely NOT the time, but you made it the time,” she hissed at him.  “Do you have ANY idea how bad my week is going?  My night?  Do you? Do you have any idea of the trauma and nightmares I’m going to have to deal with already?  And that was before you forced me to witness your suit in person. And can you comprehend the mental and emotional cataclysm I’m already going to have to endure?  And you’re pulling this shit?  Now?”

“I’m just going to ask a few questions and then it’ll all be over and then you can have your little mental breakdown,” he jeered condescendingly.

She narrowed her eyes at him and tried to lunge at him, but her chest was tied to the chair, holding her back, and she’d never hated rope more than she did in that moment.  She growled and glared at him.  “Oh thank you for the permission.  And for the record, it won’t be little.  It’s going to be a monufuckingmental breakdown.  Thank you very much.  Granted it isn’t everything on Earth is destroyed but me and one other person, who caused it in the first place, level of bad.  But I think I’m justified in needing to take a fucking second to think and process. A second I’m not going to fucking get now am I?  Because of you.”  She turned her head to the side in frustration but her eyes got caught on a small red light.  Her mouth dropped open.  “Are you recording this?” she yelled at him.  That complicated things considerably.  Now she needed to watch her words.  Now she needed to make sure she didn’t expose anything.  Well that just sucked even more.

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a game show without an audience, now would it,” he purred.

She scowled at him.  “By all means, record this to watch later.  Most people aren’t looking to get bitch slapped as hard as you’re going to get so publicly, but to each their own, I guess.  But, consent is a thing and next time, keep me out of it.”

She strained against the ropes holding her hands to the chair arms.  She glowered at him when they proved too tight for her to move her wrists.  “Also, it’s already not much of a game show.  If you have to knock out people and tie them down just to get them to play, either your show sucks or your host does.  Or in this case, both.”

“Now, now,” he snarled, his smile considerably more strained than it had been before.  “We’re just testing the newest Wayne to see how you’re going to fit in.”

“I could have told you that without all this,” she glowered.  “But you wanted to be a big man and ask a question.  So ask your little question.  Be a big man putting a bound, petite, non-native English speaking woman, in her place.  Although if that’s what it takes to make you feel like a man, that’s one of the most pathetic things I’ve ever heard.”

Riddler seethed at her, attempting to keep his face neutral, but failing spectacularly.  One of the Waynes should be afraid of him.  He had been hoping the new one would finally give him a Wayne that cowered in fear.  Instead, he got yet another feral child.  He gripped his question mark staff tightly, fighting the urge to hit her with it.  It was too early to start.  She’d get her punishment soon enough.  He looked up with a grin.  Very soon.

He looked back at her with a sadistic smirk. “Fine.  I’d hate to keep a lady waiting.  Perhaps first I should start with the stakes.”  He moved closer to smile in her face.  “Think well on your answer young Wayne, because for every question you get wrong,” he pointed up with his staff, “a knife falls.”

Marinette let out a deep, annoyed sigh and looked up to see a series of knives tied to the ceiling right above her seat.  She sighed and gave him a flat look. “Really?  That’s the best you could do?  You realize what I’ve been faced with before, right? Or did you not do your research?”  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “You look like a man who never does his research.”

Riddler sidled up to her in a step, his face a few centimeters from her own.  “We can start by testing out the knives if you’d prefer.”

Marinette leaned her head back.  Even if she couldn’t talk him out of making one drop, it wasn’t going to get her.  They would miraculously get diverted just enough to miss her.  Luck could be a bitch when it was against you and he’d left too much up to chance.  “Already changing the rules of the game?  What were you saying about a good game show?  Guess you really don’t care.”

“Fine!” Riddler screamed.  He walked away a few steps and turned back to her with a malicious glint in his eyes.  “Let’s start slow, shall we?  Starting in 1881, this hall brightened Paris’ nights while darkening its satire.  What is the name of this baby of Salis?”

Marinette stared at him blankly for a few seconds. Her face went slack.

Riddler leered down at her, his face breaking into a creepy grin at her apparent inability to answer his question.  “Oh, how sad.”  He gave her a mock pout.  “Looks like the new Wayne isn’t so smart after all.  What do they see in you anyway?  Can’t even answer a simple, easy question.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”  Marinette finally burst out.

Riddler frowned at her.  Instead of the fear he expected, her voice was incredulous and angry. “That’s the question, if you can’t answer…”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  That’s not a… You’re the Riddler.  That’s not a riddle!  That’s a… are you okay?  Like, seriously.  Are you okay?  Because I think… You know what?”  She took a deep steadying breath.  She opened her eyes to give him a serious look, completely devoid of fear, leaning more towards concerned.  

“I think you need a break.  I think you need to take a bit of time to reassess, refocus, and recenter yourself.  Then you can come back and be the Riddler I know you can be.  Because this,” she tried to motion toward him, “this is not it. That is... that isn't a riddle!  That's trivia!  You inaccurately named, evil Alex Trebek!  This would be a perfect opportunity to say I’m in Jeopardy, clueless asshole. So disappointed right now.”  She shook her head in disappointment, refusing to even look at him.

Riddler seethed at her, his face turning red with anger.  “Look either answer the question or…”

“THAT’S EXACTLY THE PROBLEM!” she screamed at him. “It’s a question, not a riddle.  And you missed a golden opportunity to ask a follow up question and saying it’s Double Jeopardy.  You missed the obvious pun!  This is why I say you need to take a break.  This isn’t you.  You’re better than this, I know you are.  I’m just… I’m worried about your mental health.”  She gave him a concerned look.

“If you can’t answer…” he snapped at her.  He gripped and regripped his question staff menacingly, leaning toward her with a snarl.

Marinette rolled her eyes at the attempt at intimidation. “Of course I can answer.  I’m from Paris and you’re asking about Le Chat Noir? Of course I know the answer.  Let me guess, your next question is about a ladybug,” she chirped, widening her eyes with false excitement.

Her face dropped the false sweetness and turned back into an aggravated frown.  “That’s not the fucking point.  My point is you interrupted my fucking abomination of a night for this bullshit and you’re not even on top of your game.  So I not only get shoved into the spotlight, against my will, by people violating my and my parents’ privacy, forcing Mon… my father to ramp up plans for my introduction.  Making sure my family and I knew we weren’t safe and exposing me to this bullshit along with the other attempts on me since it happened.”

Her frown turned into a disgusted sneer.  “And I was actually afraid for a moment because I thought you were an akuma, but you’re really just an underprepared asshole. It’s insulting frankly.”

Riddler swung his question mark staff at her catching her across her cheek.  He grinned at the blood trickling down her cheek.  Marinette glared up at him but refused to let a grunt of pain pass her lips. “Next question, hopefully this one is more to your liking.”  His eyes took on a malevolent glint.

Marinette’s eyes flicked behind him.  He smirked at her inability to make eye contact any longer. “No,” she interrupted, a smirk forming on her own lips.  “It’s my turn.  I have one for you.  It’s actually in the form of a riddle, if you think you can handle that.”  The Riddler growled at her and moved closer to tower over her threateningly.  “What lights up the day with black against yellow yet lights up the night with yellow against black.  It brings hope to those who see it yet marks your demise.  What is it?”

Riddler narrowed his eyes at her and backed away to get some space while he thought.  He looked down for a second, searching the ground as though it might hold the answer for him.  He suddenly looked up, his eyes bright with realization.  “A signal!” he exclaimed, jumping with excitement.  His face suddenly fell realizing the words that passed his lips.  

He spun around just in time for Signal to punch him in the jaw.  Riddler stumbled back falling backward on his ass.  Signal stalked toward him, eskrima sticks out and ready.  He kept his eyes on Riddler but raised his voice so Marinette could hear him.  “You alright, Ma’am?”

“I’m fine.  Just pissed,” she grunted.  She focused on her bindings, trying to figure out a way to loosen them enough to get out.

Signal smirked and gave a short nod.  “Preying on young women again?  Not a good look for you.”

“Penguin and Scarecrow both tried and couldn’t get to her.  I did,” he said defiantly, his chest puffing out even as he was slumped on the floor. “Penguin got to the museum too early. Scarecrow got to the hotel too late. But me?  I plan better.”

“And got a verbal bitch slap the likes of which Gotham has never seen for your trouble.”  Signal shook his head in mock sympathy and regripped his sticks. “Publicly.”

Riddler sneered at Signal.  “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t,” Marinette called from her seat.  She pointed at him threateningly with her now miraculously freed right hand.  “Next time I’ll do it physically too.”

Signal grinned proudly and snorted at her comment. Riddler growled before looking back up at Signal with an angry scowl.  “Looks like this show has come to an end.  But we’ll be back after a short break.”  He hit his staff hard on the ground and a gas started emitting from it, obscuring Signal’s view.  Signal backed away and rushed over to Marinette, uncertain if the gas was dangerous.

He pulled out a knife and quickly sliced through the remaining ropes and helped her get free.  “Can you walk?”

Marinette started sprinting toward the exit.  “I can do better than that,” she called over her shoulder.  “You just going to stand there and let the gas get you?”  Signal smirked and followed her out.

She grunted as her shoulder rammed into the doorframe when she miscalculated the distance.  She silently cursed how long it was taking her brain to recover from having been knocked out.  Now out of the room she stopped running and rubbed her head as if willing it to kick back into gear.

“You sure you’re okay?” Signal asked catching up to her.

Marinette couldn’t see his eyes under his mask but the bottom half of his face seemed to be contorted in concern.  She grumbled noncommittally in response and rubbed her shoulder.  She looked around them quickly.  “You sure this is a safe way out?  He has to have had help.  I don’t see him doing his own dirty work.”

Signal nodded.  “He did have help.  But, so do I.”  He nodded behind him.

Marinette craned her neck around him to look behind him. She cringed as she saw Red Hood kneeing someone in the face.  The goon fell limply to the ground, unconscious before he hit.  Red Hood looked up and ran over to them as soon as he spotted her.  “Pi… uh… pretty impressive mouth,” he stuttered.  He looked over her closely as he could without touching her.  His eyes zeroed in on her cheek.

Marinette stared at him for a few seconds missing the incredulous look Signal tried to give him.  “Um… thanks… I think.”  She blinked a few more times before frowning.  “Yeah, can we not talk about my mouth, please?”

Red Hood choked on nothing and shook his head, leaning away, as if trying to get away from the idea.  “I meant your att…” he shook his head again and looked back at her. “Not a problem.  Let’s never talk about it again.  Are you okay?  Did he hurt you anywhere else?”  His eyes scanned her again and stopped at her wrists.

Marinette rubbed her wrists self-consciously. “No…” she started.  “I mean!  No he didn’t hurt me anywhere else.  But I am okay,” she rushed out when she saw him tense up at her words.

“Where is he?” Red Hood growled, still staring at her wrists.

“Got away,” Signal answered.

Red hood rounded on him, his entire body tensed for a fight.  “What do you mean he got away?”

Marinette stepped between them and pushed Red Hood back gently.  “He released some kind of gas.  He got me out of there before we found out what it did.  Seems like a good move considering how he got me in the first place.”

Red Hood looked down at her for a second before looking up to Signal with a nod.  He remembered seeing the gas dissipating when they finally caught up to where she was taken.  It had looked like there was enough to knock out an entire city block.  Definitely overkill, but spoke to Riddler’s desperation to be the first to kidnap her.  “Idea which direction he went?”

Signal sighed a heavy sigh.  “I didn’t see which way he went but it had to be out the west side of the room, but that’s all I got.”

Red Hood nodded and touched his com.  “You got that?”  He paused for a moment listening to whatever was being said over his com.  “Yes, she’s fine.  A few rope burns and a cut on her cheek, but seems okay other than that.”

Signal nodded and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do you have family we can call?”

Marinette shook her head absentmindedly, the strain of the night starting to hit.  “No, I can call my brother.  He’s probably terrified about me.”

Red Hood seemed to freeze.  “Just… the one brother?  You… aren’t you one of the Waynes?”

Marinette’s eyes widened and her face paled.  She plastered a smile on her face. “Right.  Yes.  Of course. I… I meant my one brother was with me at the time.  Yes. Yeah.  The Waynes are my family.  I’m a… I’m… Yeah, I’m a… Wayne,” she barely managed to get the word out of her mouth.  It felt wrong and foreign on her tongue.  She smiled wider at them.  “But you don’t… you don’t have to bother them.  They’re all busy.”

“Yeah, looking for you,” Red Hood answered back sharply.  “They’re the ones that called us.  They’re terrified right now.”

“I think they’d want to know,” Signal urged gently, his voice heartfelt and slightly pained.

She let out a bitter scoff before she could stop herself.  She squeezed her eyes shut and mentally berated her still drugged mind for letting that slip out.  “I meant,” she started loudly, “I’ll inform someone.  They’d want to… hear it from me,” she finished quietly.

Red Hood took a breath and moved closer to her, gently resting his hands on her shoulders.  “I promise you, they’re worried about you and they would want to know. They’d want to make sure you’re okay. They’d want to make sure you feel safe. They would want to protect you. In fact, I’d expect to see a lot more of them over the next few days.”

Marinette opened her mouth to answer but got interrupted by the police breaking into the room.  Marinette pursed her lips and seemed to let a calm come over her.  Red Hood looked harder at her change as the police led her off to take her statement.  No, it wasn’t calm.  It was a numbness, an absence of any feelings.  His face contorted into a scowl.  Exactly what Adrien had described.  “You get that,” Red Hood snapped into his com.  He waited a few seconds before shaking his head.  

“That’s a fool’s bet,” Signal scoffed.  “Of course she’s not going to.  She might send a text.  And even then I bet it won’t be much.”

Red Hood listened for a few more seconds before he shook his head again.  “I’m not taking that bet either.”  He watched as Adrien just stopped himself from tackling Marinette in his excitement to see her again.  After what looked like a worried conversation, he saw Adrien pull her into a tight hug and Marinette melt into it.  “We need to fix this and quick before B does anything else to completely destroy any chance we have,” Red Hood snarled.  He turned and started grappling away.  “I’m going rogue hunting.”

Chapter 17

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